


The Long Way

by Lancette



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:05:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lancette/pseuds/Lancette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life in Bristol is becoming complicated for an increasingly disillusioned Mitchell. Not least because Herrick has plans for him - and can that ever be a good thing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Challenge

It ripped through his nervous system like shrapnel. 

A vicious explosion of sensation that shredded his mind and hurled him awake. It was unrelenting. Shrieking. Howling. Whimpering. Screaming. 

On and on. Wave after wave. 

His throat closed; he couldn't cry out. Jesus, he was going to suffocate. Perhaps this time he really was in hell. All he could do was curl his fingers until the nails gouged bloody tracks in his palms. He pressed his head back down with eyes clenched shut as the steel teeth of the barbed wire cut deep into his neck. Squeezing tighter, tighter… ripping fragile skin… slashing across muscle and bone. 

There was no point in fighting back. This he knew for certain. All he had to do was hold on to his sanity until the waves of terror passed. Just hold on. Don’t succumb to the madness. Hold on. Don’t fight back. Don’t move.

It was an eternity before the sensations abated. 

Even when he felt the soft pillow beneath his head he didn’t dare move. Not yet.

Not until the world fell still and calm. There had been no screaming, not even a whimper. With the tiniest of movements he dropped his head to the side, seeking the comfort of the first light of a misty dawn creeping past the edge of curtains.  

After an age he exhaled and relaxed his death-grip on the cotton sheets clenched in his fists. He pushed himself up, cautious and deliberate, disturbing the quiet space surrounding him as little as he possibly could. As if he were a ghost.

It was going to be a beautiful crisp Sunday morning. The only sounds breaking the stillness were the hum of city traffic and the last birdsong of the dawn chorus. He sat motionless on the side of the bed for long minutes and allowed reality to reclaim him from the chaos. 

He knew this moment so well. After all, he’d lived through it many thousands of times and in all its variations. Sometimes it took on a new and unexpected face which caught him off guard, ambushing him as he walked through a park, or talked with a friend, or buttered some toast. But it was always there – the screams, the terror, the ripping of flesh. Just… there. Mocking him. Challenging him to out-run the inevitable.

His hand shook as he raised it to rake back unruly hair, pulling nearly-black curls out of his eyes. This annoyed him. It was over now, the terror was a lie. He had no need to be frightened of anything or anyone. 

With an uncomfortable crack he straightened his back and lifted himself from the edge of the bed, stretching out lithe limbs as he did so. Turning his back to the window he was able to appreciate the scene laid out before him: white cotton sheets, more than a little crumpled; magnolia walls and cream cushions; a carelessly framed print of a bridge hanging above the bed; clothes strewn across a vaguely mucky beige carpet and over an uncomfortable-looking red leather chair. Yet another anonymous hotel bedroom in a medium-sized English city.

And of course there was someone on the bed. Her straightened blonde hair was spread across the pillows in a manner that could have been artful if not for the knots and the strands across her face. Her body stretched out over the crumpled sheets, showing off the glow of a carefully maintained tan against the sharp white linen, and one arm draped to hang over the edge of the bed. 

Jennifer. For some reason it was important to him that he knew her name. 

Another body in another hotel bedroom. Christ. Why was it always so easy?

 

* * *

Last night the pub had been loud and heaving with a press of humanity all out to have a great night come what may. Saturday night in Bristol city centre was always something of a zoo and the pub had a reputation to maintain for being the latest renovated Next Big Thing. He had sat in a corner, practically hidden behind an expanse of dark wood table, and accepted drink after drink. His friend had been in jovial mood, happy to keep returning to the bar to get in yet another shot of vodka while himself sipping at one glass of the very best red wine on offer. 

“Thank goodness they've got something a little more vintage than our current year. I really don't think 2007 will prove to be a classic. But I have to say, old son, you’re a man on a mission tonight.” The older man placed the full shot glass down on the table to join the empty ones. “It won't be long before you drink this fine establishment completely dry. Not that I'd wish to interfere you understand, it's good to see you let your hair down. About time if you ask me.”

“What are your plans for the night then Herrick?” He reached for the shot glass and tossed it back.“There's plenty to choose from in here, but we can move on if you fancy something a bit more, erm, sophisticated, you know, to match your palate.” He tapped the glass down and gave his most unsubtle smirk.

A shark's smile creased Herrick's face. “Oh Mitchell! I think you underestimate these fine creatures.” 

He inclined his head in the direction of a group of girls apparently out en masse. A few of them had been darting sidelong glances across for some time. It seemed they had reached the stage of being just drunk enough to laugh over which of them stood most chance of grabbing the attention of the guy hiding away in the corner with the dark curls, melting brown eyes, and a body to die for.

“Well. While you can still just about stand upright, I think it's time, don't you?” And with that Herrick set off towards his targets. 

Mitchell never doubted that Herrick would succeed in reeling the girls in. They were very fresh, very pretty, and far more naïve than they realised. His combination of good humour and old-fashioned politeness was undeniably charming and - although it was an unspoken truth - he had Mitchell as bait, just to get things started. Forty minutes and a few rounds of drinks later and two of the girls were comfortably snuggled up behind the dark wood table and genuinely enjoying Herrick's company. Admittedly, one kept sneaking surreptitious looks in Mitchell's direction without seeming too impolite. 

“It’s getting late, my dears. I can recommend an excellent Thai restaurant just a couple of miles away. My friend and I would be more than happy to treat you both.” Herrick was saying, moving the pieces of his puzzle into position with practised ease.

But Mitchell's attention had been wandering for some time.

The woman looked out of place sitting alone at the crowded bar with a glass of orange juice. Her dark suit and shiny black shoes shouted that she had come straight from work. Every few minutes she glanced at a phone, sighed, and gave her long blonde hair a tiny shake. Mitchell couldn't quite tell whether it was in disappointment or anger.

“John”, that was always a sign that Herrick was moving in for the kill, ‘John’ being far less memorable or potentially traceable than ‘Mitchell’. “You have your car with you, what do you say we move on to the restaurant? It's getting late and we're all feeling peckish. I'll phone ahead to reserve a table.” 

“Yeah, sure. Good idea. The car's parked just down the way - first turning on the right after the lights. I tell you what, why don't you three go on ahead, I'll catch you up. I just need to…” His voice trailed off as Herrick threw him a quizzical look.

“We have a plan!” Herrick stood up, “After you, ladies.”

The girls went to gather their coats, whispering reassurances that everything was fine, that there's safety in numbers, and anyway the older guy reminded them of a schoolteacher they'd had, what with his short sandy hair and twinkly blue eyes.

“Now then, Mitchell, what's going on? You're not in one of your playing-hard-to-get moods are you?”

“Of course not.” Mitchell said, probably a little too fast for his companion's liking. “D’you see the woman over there, blonde, long legs, holding an orange juice? Gotta level with you Herrick. I'm up for more of a chase tonight. I need a challenge for once. Stretch the muscles a bit. You understand that don't you?”

The look Mitchell was sending towards his prey was unapologetically ravenous. Herrick nodded in response, though his tone was grudging. “Hmmm. And exactly which muscle are you referring to? No - don’t tell me. I must say you certainly pick your moments to abandon ship.”

Mitchell handed over the car keys. “Look, I’d prefer it if you found a spot to… y’know… other than the inside of my car. Find a lane or the docks or something,” he muttered, “but I guess I can't complain.”

“No, you most certainly can not. Anyway. Enjoy your rather attractive challenge over there. Make a night of it. Stretch your muscle. I’ll call you in the morning, there's something I need to sort out with you.” Herrick turned on his heel and instantly beamed a smile. “Let's go ahead then ladies, it will do him good to have a little jog to catch us up.”

For a moment Mitchell stared after the three of them - the girls taking an arm each, gallantly offered by the monster they trusted. They were so young. It wasn't fair. What was going to happen to them was … but he couldn't stop Herrick. Not that it could ever be his place to try, even if he wanted to. And Herrick was relishing this opportunity to add yet another story to his list of triumphs. What would happen next had been inevitable from the beginning.

His smile lingered as the pub door swung shut behind them but he felt the melancholy seep into it unbidden. Then he realised why - he didn't even know their names.

 

* * *

The woman observed him over the rim of her orange juice.

There was something in the smile, something in the way he watched his companions leave. It repelled her and attracted her in equal measure. After all it was part of her job to size people up quickly, to see how much she should trust what they said. This man was no different. When he had been chatting to the little brown-haired girl the easy charm had clearly been plastered on. Couldn't the girl see how closed off his body language had become? How his eyes kept sliding away from her face to stare at her body? It was predatory and reptilian and she’d wanted to walk straight over and warn the girl she was way out of her depth. But that would have been rude and patronising. And no doubt a waste of time when the predator in question was so pretty and could summon up a twinkle in his eye.

Anyway. However much she enjoyed people-watching if there was no message from Jamie this time she was leaving. She took out her phone for the thousandth time that evening just to give him one last chance… but no, there was nothing. Enough was enough. Exactly when had Jamie turned into such a bastard.

She half rose from the bar stool, her mind set on getting out of there and home as fast as she could -and almost collided with a man standing far too close for comfort. 

She looked up and felt a power in his physical presence that momentarily frightened her.

“I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump, I was just getting myself a refill.” The voice was a surprise. It was soft, warm and deep. She didn’t pull away when his hand reached out to support her elbow. “I think you've been drinking too much orange juice, and I've been drinking too much vodka. It might be a good time to swap drinks.”

“Or maybe we could just do a bit of mixing.” Christ almighty! She winced, biting her lip with embarrassment. Where had that come from? The Big Book of things not to say when you're trying very hard indeed not to find a man attractive? She couldn’t mistake the flick of his eyes down to her lips, and tried to ignore the sudden tendrils of heat threading through her veins.

To her relief he burst out laughing, and the laughter changed everything. His face lit up and his whole body language relaxed. His amusement was infectious and she responded in kind. 

“Surely that should have been my pick-up line.” He teased.

“Only if you were actually trying to pick me up.”

The sudden look he gave her in response was hot and inviting. There was no room for any doubt between them exactly where this was heading.

“John.” He said simply, holding out his hand. 

“Jennifer.” She replied, taking it. 

It could have been just a handshake, but instead he held her hand and led her to the dark wood table in the corner. 

“Two vodka and oranges then?” He asked. 

This was her cue to decline, to make her excuses and to leave. She would go back to the lovely, cold flat she shared with Jamie and sit in front of the TV wondering why her husband had left her in all but name. 

“Yes please.” She said.

Jennifer wasn't sure what they'd talked about. The usual, probably. How do you find Bristol… the weather's getting colder… I love the autumn… where in Ireland do you come from.… It was irrelevant really. His manner was easy and open. He was understated and funny. He made her laugh. He was gentle.He listened. And she felt like she was drowning in him.

“Can I see you home?” He asked as closing time was called.

“No.” She said starkly. “I don't want to go home, not anymore. At least not yet.”

They were both adults. She wasn’t a girl out with friends, hoping for a little flirtation and perhaps finding a nice boyfriend along the way, but then getting in too deep. She was a grown-up and - fuck it - no-one had the right to tell her no. Least of all Jamie. The bastard. So why shouldn't she. Just once. Just this time with a man who had defied her easy categorisation. 

He nodded. “Would you like to come with me instead?”

She said nothing, but picked up her coat and handbag and held out her hand.

 

* * *

The last of the morning birdsong died away as Mitchell looked down on the bed where she lay. She really was lovely. It was in her eyes, her smile. Jennifer, that was her name.

Shit, he thought. She had been interesting. Angry. And so sad. It had been too easy after all.

Their first kiss had come long after their hands had stripped away the layers of clothes and touched skin. Her touch had been tentative and unsure at the start as he waited for her to discover his skin, stretching fingertips across muscles and carding softly through the hair of his chest. He’d sighed as her mouth traced over the tattoos on his shoulders, tongue chasing the shapes as her lips curled in a smile. He concentrated on the path of her tongue as it mapped his body, following dips and peaks and the outline of muscles. If he concentrated on her touch, maybe, just maybe, he could keep the monster at bay for a little longer. Her touch became surer when his breathing grew ragged and his body responded deliciously to the strokes of her fingers and the heat of her mouth as she drew in his cock. Frantically pushing the demon aside he let his need reach out to her as they cleaved to each other - both seeking out and soothing the wounds in the other, the hurt that ached for solace. 

She had no idea of the iron will he summoned as his own tongue moved across her neck in slow circles, how he drank in the heat when he pressed his mouth against the pulse fluttering erratically as he buried himself deep in her warmth. And later she had first gasped and then cried out, clutching at his soft dark curls with her hands as his mouth finally nestled at the top of her inner thigh and his teeth grazed at her femoral pulse, teasing her and tormenting himself.

After, she had lain against him, kissing his neck, her tongue lapping at him, unconsciously searching out the same warmth, the same life force. Hadn't she noticed it wasn't there? Hadn't she noticed the chill beneath the skin? 

Then he had slept deeply for the first time in weeks. 

Until the dawn.

Mitchell reached over to the pointless red chair and started to pull on his clothes, standing to zip up his jeans.

“Must you?” A voice whispered. “Must you go so soon? It’s lovely and warm here.” She stretched out a welcoming hand.

His mind assessed the options with clinical precision. He could be gentle, kiss her, stroke her hair, maybe share a false phone number. He could let her down gently and leave her with her dignity. That would be nice. But oh-so risky. Or he could be brutal - just the end of a one-night-stand, a satisfactory fuck, and leave her crushed. And of course he could kill her, and obviously that's the option he should choose. He realised he was licking his lips.

“Yeah, gotta go. Unless you want to come over here and suck me off again. I’ve got a bit of time and you’re good.” He waited for her gasp. “OK. No worries. But thanks.” His words abrupt as he turned his back to her. “I mean it. Thanks for last night. You're a great lay, darlin', your man should definitely be paying more attention to you. Maybe I should tell him that, pass on a bit of advice. Anyway. I need a piss.” 

Mitchell strode into the tiny bathroom before he had to see the look on her face, then leant back against the door as it banged shut behind him. The thundering call of her heartbeat in his ears started to fade, but the gnawing need remained. _Feed. It can’t be helped. There’s no escape. You can’t out-run this forever. Feed, damn you._

She was dressed by the time he’d calmed enough to step back into the bedroom. Her black suit jacket was crumpled, though her chin was held high and her hands gripped each other so hard he could see the whites of her knuckles. 

“It's not like I know what to say in this kind of situation.” She said before he could start again. “So I'll just say goodbye, John.” 

She stood completely still, watching his face. He could see the hope fade as she accepted that she had not misunderstood his words; that he was not going to smile and draw her close again.

“No problem, darlin’. I’ve paid for the room already so don't worry about that.” He forced out a dismissive shrug.She gulped as if in pain, nodded and walked to the door.

“Right. ‘Bye darlin’.” He turned the knife. “Thanks again. It was good. Oh, by the way, you’ve got my name wrong. I’m not John.”

She couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she brushed past. Her hand rested on the door handle for a moment.

“What the hell kind of man are you?” 

Then the door slammed.

Mitchell threw himself backwards onto the bed, an arm over his eyes, shielding them from the sunshine forcing its way into the room. Too easy to crush - but at least she'd never want to find him or speak to him or anyone he knew ever again. He pushed away the shame. What else could he do? It was the final kindness he could offer her. 

His breathing was painful, but he pretended not to notice. Fuck. Not killing her - that was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

He didn't know how long he'd lain there when his phone rang and he dragged it to his ear. 

“Good morning.” A horribly cheerful voice filtered down the line. “So where are you and where should I send the clean-up squad?”

“It's fine, there's no need.” Mitchell cut off the questioning as quickly as possible. “I didn't get as far as her place or mine, and the river flows surprisingly fast at this time of year.”

“Ahh, I see.” Mitchell could hear Herrick's purr of satisfaction even down the phone. “So, how did you enjoy your challenge? Clearly you succeeded if we're talking about you littering the river Avon with the result.”

“Honestly? It was harder than I thought, but I just about made it. You?”

“Well let's just say your car won't be ready until later this afternoon. The valet service is working overtime as we speak. Sorry about that. Still, you can have it back at 4 o'clock, fresh as a daisy. Come to my house and collect it there, I need to speak to you about something. It's important.”

Meet at Herrick's house - that wasn't normal.

“What's it about?” Mitchell asked, struggling to keep the alarm out of his voice. “Something to do with me?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Herrick clearly wasn't going to give anything away over the phone. “It’s time you had some gainful employment so I have a job for you, soldier.”

 


	2. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell didn't kill last night.  
> He didn't even feed.  
> So that's all good... 
> 
> Isn't it?

  

 _Sunday, 10 am_  

Mitchell resisted the urge to hurl the phone straight at the anaemic print of the Clifton Suspension Bridge hanging above the bed, its angle just uneven enough to be annoying.

“Ah bollocks!” he yelled at the ceiling, letting the phone fall onto the pillow instead.

How bad could his timing be?

He was ready to handle Herrick’s interest in all the prurient details of the night’s kill - and the more graphic the detail the happier the old goat would be. This was doubly true given Mitchell’s failure to feed at Herrick’s side over the past few weeks. Mitchell could deliver that, no problem. But this - this summons came out of the blue. An “invitation” to Herrick’s home was not something he could refuse without drawing more unwelcome attention.

So it was going to be a cosy private meeting with just the two of them, quite likely over tea and biscuits with Herrick in his tartan slippers. There would be no safety in numbers nor any chance to hide out in the crowd.

Four o'clock this afternoon? Seven hours wouldn’t be enough time. Nowhere near.

He remembered this feeling only too well - like staring straight down the barrel of a loaded rifle.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

He brought his hands up to his face, palms pressed together, and rested his forehead on the tips of his fingers. There had to be a way out of this godawful mess. Lying to Herrick was always risky and Mitchell knew from bitter experience that he was skirting closer and closer to the edge. But if he was honest it was amusing to stretch those boundaries again.

“Jesus.”

He thought he’d been clever choosing a night when Herrick was distracted by the two girls from the pub.

It had been nearly a fortnight and he’d been so scrupulous about not leaving any trail.Not a sign to anyone how he was indulging himself; testing how far he could push his wavering strength of will.

Almost two weeks of abstinence - with not even a sip to take the edge off.

He’d reached the point where the pain of not feeding becomes a perverse kind of pleasure. A pleasure that made each and every nerve in his body sing with want and need as he stretched himself on the rack - just one more day. One more. But this morning’s terrors had been far worse than he’d feared. He'd been here before and knew exactly what was coming next... and he wasn't capable of facing it.

Christ, why should he ever choose to face that hell again?

 _Why fight nature? For what purpose? Who are you to question its beauty? Nature cannot be deflected; it will only fight back harder. Time to grow up, my boy._ Herrick had nearly pissed himself laughing when he’d caught Mitchell hunched in the dark trying to draw out some life-force from the trench rats back in the Belgian mud.

Mitchell had a suspicion Herrick didn’t consider humans much of an evolutionary step up from those rats.

So what was so special about Jennifer that she got to scuttle away from the trench? Nothing. She'd just got lucky. Lucky he'd risen to his personal challenge; lucky he'd held on to the fragments of his humanity just long enough. He could still smell the sweetness of her on the pillows, and he could still see the desolate look on her face as she went to slam the hotel door behind her.

Yeah, lucky.

He lowered his hands and held them out in front of him. The tremor running through the long fingers was slight but unmistakable. He didn’t need a mirror to know the story his eyes told too - he'd seen it reflected often enough in the eyes of others. That dark sliver of desperation, something frantic and primal. However good he'd become at disguising it Herrick of all people would see it, deep in whatever was left of his soul. All-consuming emptiness.

While his old comrade-in-arms would not be impressed with his abstinence, it would always be the lies and evasions that mattered more in the end. And Mitchell had been accumulating quite a collection of those. Little ones - _yes, of course I'm up for a feed tonight, see you later, mate_ \- and bigger ones, very big ones.

“Fuck it.”

There was no point wallowing any longer. He’d been running on borrowed time and it had finally run out. No excuses. It must be dealt with.

 _Prioritise. However chaotic the situation, always be sure cover your tracks_. His maker’s advice cut both ways.

Mitchell pulled on heavy boots and shrugged his shoulders into the black leather coat. Reaching into a pocket he drew out sunglasses and slammed them over his eyes.

 

* * *

 

_Sunday, 10.54 am_

It was a long walk from the hotel to Mitchell's flat buried down a grubby backstreet near the city centre, but it was a crisp, sunny morning and he wanted to be on the move.

A small detour took him to the railway arches close to Temple Meads station.

He squinted as he stepped away from the pavement and ducked through the archway. The light couldn't penetrate this far and the air was damp and rank. A sudden chill hit the back of his neck and he pulled up the collar of his jacket, partly obscuring his face from any passers-by. Not that he needed to bother with that. There was only a handful of people down here and they were either sleeping or so far out of it that they wouldn't recognise their own reflections.

Mitchell scanned the scene. With the unerring instinct from decades of action it didn't take him long to select the most vulnerable target. He walked with a steady tread towards a man lying against a wall behind an oil-drum, almost obscured by a roll of blankets and a woollen hat. The man didn't react as Mitchell crouched down by his side.

"Here, mate, you OK? It’s feckin cold down here. D’you need any cigarettes? I'm quitting, do me a favour - you take them. Warm yerself up a bit.”

The man raised himself on an elbow, narrowed slits of eyes tried to focus through the haze of stale drink and onto the packet held out towards him. As he leant across Mitchell could see the faded combat jacket and glanced down to see battered old army boots. A soldier. That made sense; there were plenty of soldiers who ended up destitute on the streets. Which conflict, he wondered. Iraq, maybe even the Falklands, this guy showed all the signs of having lived this life for a very long time.

Even as Mitchell relaxed his self-control he had time to register the croaked “thanks” before his hand came down over the soldier's mouth. He felt the filthy puddled water seep through the knees of his jeans as he pressed his weight down. Then it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. All sensation collected in his throat as fangs pushed through the fragile skin of human neck and he instantly felt the rush.

The blood was thin and acrid, but Christ, so good. He tightened his grip on the soldier's head, twisting it painfully to force the flow to come stronger, faster. When he perfected the angle it hit the back of his throat with a sensation that flooded every cell of his body.

The universe flashed hot and red.

It still wasn't enough.

His fingernails dug into scalp as he started to suck - he had to have more. The soldier managed to raise an arm and pull at the hand that covered his face. A last fight-back. Through the haze of his release, Mitchell felt the hand clawing at him start to weaken. The suffocation would get this one before the blood loss could. With a groan that started deep in his throat Mitchell drew his head back and let the man's head drop to the ground.

 _Enough_. He dragged himself back from the pleasure. _That's enough_.

He reached over the prone body to pick up the cigarette packet. There was no need to leave any fingerprints lying around.

"Dog eat dog, that never changes,” he murmured, "you know all about survival too, my friend, but our luck always runs out in the end.”

Mitchell got to his feet, unsteady. His gaze tore away from the body at his feet, passing over the dark green woollen hat lying next to the bloodied head. He could still sense the faintest beat of the soldier's heart, trying to fight on.

 _It's in the lap of the gods now_ , Mitchell told himself as he stepped back, brushing at his knees. _Let fate decide._

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his mouth and hands. It had been an efficient feed. Less than two minutes; the work of an expert. And no cleaning up required.

The sunlight hit his face as he walked back up, long legs striding out and putting as much distance as he could between himself and his prey. Maybe this time he could last longer. The blood was the least sustaining you could get, but yeah, maybe three weeks this time.

It would be better this time. The blood would do its job. Anonymous. Impersonal. No chase or seduction to heat the senses. Just food. And the fresh, living blood tracing its path through his veins would keep Herrick in the dark about last night.

 _Win-Win_ , he taunted himself with vicious sarcasm. But even as the new blood invigorated his veins, the old euphoria was already beginning to fade. He paused, took a cigarette from the packet crushed in his fist and lit it as fast as he could.

His hands were steady as he shielded the flame from the cold breeze. Drawing in the comfort of the familiar smoke he pulled his shoulders back and set off across the city.

 

* * *

 

_Sunday, 4.01 pm._

Jesus Christ, Mitchell hated this street. He stood in the road for a second, waiting to register anything off-key, but everything was calm and frighteningly normal. A couple of cars were getting their Sunday afternoon wash on the drive, the hum of lawnmowers echoed across the neat back gardens, dogs and kids made the most of the afternoon sunshine.

The houses curved around the small cul de sac, pretty much undistinguishable from each other. _Two-or-three bedrooms, double aspect living room, quality kitchen fittings_... the sales blurb could write itself. The Volvo looked supremely out of place sitting outside Herrick's house, and a few of the local kids were admiring it as Mitchell brushed past to ring the bell.

The sooner he was out of here the better. Nothing about him fitted.

"Right on time. Good. Come on in." Herrick ushered Mitchell into the living room.

It had been a few months since his one and only visit, and everything looked the same. The same except for the plush new carpet which was a rich, dark red. Mitchell smiled to himself, that was Herrick - always planning ahead. It didn't take any imagination to guess why the carpet had been replaced, probably for the same reason as was needed after his last visit.

The furniture was comfortable, but sparse. The only sign of Herrick's naturally more baroque tastes was a highly decorated dark wood cabinet standing awkwardly in the corner of the living room, at odds with the simple lines in evidence everywhere else. Mitchell knew Herrick owned at least one of the glamorous Clifton townhouses just a few miles away, and suspected that he might own more. But ever the pragmatist Herrick had made the sacrifice. What middle-ranking police officer could afford that kind of luxury? Avoid the questions, stay under the radar, blend in.

Anyway, there was an added advantage to renting these anonymous boxes and moving on every couple of years.After all, if a few house-guests seemed to disappear along the way, who'd notice?

"Coffee for you," Herrick said as he handed over a fine white china mug, "after the amount of vodka you managed to put away last night you should be hungover for a month."

"I'm not too bad considering," Mitchell took the mug with a grateful smile and sat down on the grey leather sofa, “must be all the practice. But my car had better be bloody spotless.” He added, eyebrows pulling down into a threat.

Herrick did not take up the conversation and expand on his own Saturday night conquests, instead he settled himself into the closest armchair. Despite his precautions Mitchell couldn't prevent his body from tensing.

"My God Mitchell. That challenge of yours was much less fragrant than she appeared! How drunk did you have to get her? I know she was out of your league, but you must have bought her half a brewery. It's still coming off you in waves, old son."

The smile lifted the corner of Mitchell's mouth. “Don’t worry about me. She was fragrant enough at the beginning of the night, believe me. After that… well, let’s just say things got a lot more interesting and leave it at that.”

Herrick leant forward and inhaled close to Mitchell’s neck. “Hmm, there's more than alcohol going on there. Much more. Quite the chemical cocktail. Mitchell, my boy, you've been very, very naughty.” He actually licked his lips. "I'd keep a low profile for a few more hours if I were you, not everyone can tolerate your excesses, you know."

“Ok, Ok.” Mitchell fought to keep his tone relaxed, “No need to be so nosey. You had your fun too.” Keen to end this line of discussion while he was ahead, Mitchell drank deeply from his mug. “Right. So, why am I here?"

"Help yourself to a custard cream. Ah yes. You see Mitchell, I need to keep an eye on someone, a very close eye indeed. Thus, I have a job for you."

“A job is it? Fine. What d’yas need me to do?”

“Like I say. Keep an eye on a… client.”

“Why me? Seth and Marco can do the trailing. You now how Seth loves all that MI6 cloak and dagger crap.”

“This is a little more delicate. You see there’s this solicitor's office…”

At risk of choking on his coffee, Mitchell snorted in disbelief.

"A solicitor? You seriously want me to go and work in some law firm's offices? Herrick, you know what those places are like. It'll be all polished marble and wall to wall mirrors. Even if I'm just the cleaner they'll notice. Everyone will be fuckin' freaking out within five minutes of me walking in the door."

"It's not a cleaning job..."

"Say again? Look, whatever else you've got in mind I haven't worn a suit since the sixties, and I'm not about to start now. Not even for you mate." He started to laugh in earnest.

In contrast, any amusement had drained from Herrick's face.

"This is not optional Mitchell. I need someone on the inside that I can trust, and who's able to do whatever's necessary. Someone who can take the initiative and not raise suspicions. Surely you don't imagine I should trust this to Seth. Or Marco. I'd send them in to check out a prison, possibly, but they wouldn't last a day on the other side of the law. They'd probably try to nick all the staplers on the first morning and get thrown out."

"Can't you do it yourself? This is far more your kind of thing."

"This requires more than dropping in occasionally for a quick chat, so I can't put in the time it needs. Hard though it is for you to remember, I already have gainful employment. As I said, I need someone on the inside. How's your Spanish?"

"My what?" Mitchell was liking the sound of this less and less. "My Spanish? It was only ever crap at best, you know that. Not that I can remember any of it. And even if I could it would sound as if I'm a refugee from some classic movie, I haven't used it since… when would it have been…?"

“Oh. That would be… Spring, 1939. Don't worry, Mitchell, I’m kidding. You'll just have a little light reading. Use the odd phrase, mutter something about Bolivian Spanish being very different and you'll be fine."

"You are still kidding, aren't you?" Mitchell raised one dark eyebrow and waited.

"Somewhat. The truth is you just have to be there as much as is needed, but it helps to have a believable enough cover story, and therefore you will be a lowly dogsbody employed temporarily to assist Miles Chadwick with a particularly tricky immigration case involving a South American client. Hypothetically speaking. All you'll really need to do is look busy occasionally and drink lots of coffee. You won't even have to wear a suit, I promise."

"Chadwick. Never heard of him. Is he a newcomer?"

"He's not a vampire Mitchell, and that's only one reason why you'll have to tread very carefully. Do not fuck this up. Now listen."

 

* * *

 

_Sunday, 11 pm_

East London glistened in the darkness as rain hammered down on the wall of glass. The view from the window was uninterrupted by any reflection except for a flash of light as he dragged on the cigarette. It made a beautiful picture in its grimy, heaving, sinful way.

He'd been in the city for nearly three decades now, and it was the closest to a home he'd had for a long time. Sure, he used to travel all over Europe, but it wasn't as easy to slip across borders these days. There was so much to organise in advance just to glide past all the security cameras.

He missed the old spontaneity.

With a quick flick of his wrist the car-keys landed in his hand again and he gripped them tighter. He should get one of his men to drive him to Bristol. That would provide the expected level of authority and gravitas for his arrival. But for once he preferred the idea of driving himself. It would give him the chance to mix business with pleasure, and he always thought of Bristol with pleasure.

Maybe she'd be there. It'd been a very long time.

The only down-side was doing business with Herrick again. There was agitation in the ranks here in London; rumours circulating that Herrick was getting ideas way above his pay grade. Still, at least the man was good at keeping things clean, tidy and running like clockwork. All skills which mattered when handling a delicate package like this.

Herrick’s penchant for the proper rules of etiquette reminded him that he would do well to feed before the journey. It wouldn't do to arrive and immediately start munching away on the local population.

Turning his back on the view he moved over to the glass desk, reaching for the phone.

“Irène, could you arrange for a person to be brought up. Nothing special, bring whoever is closest to the end."

The details on the computer screen blinked up at him as he replaced the receiver. Turner Road Law Centre. Really? That made him smile.

Long, long ago he had met a vampire who claimed to have known Richard Turner. Turner - pillar of 18th century Bristolian society, parliamentarian, respected slave trader, and mass murderer of epic standing. The first vampire to live a double life, undiscovered. The deception was so complete it seemed the good people of the city had named a road after him to show their appreciation. How nice of them.

It was sobering to think how little had really changed when you peer at what lies beneath. After all, here he was in the 21st century, carrying on the tradition.

The door opened behind him, "Christophe?” Irène had been swift and efficient as always. “Is this acceptable?”

He barely turned to look as a young man was brought into the room. Irène was gentle as she led him forwards. Christophe could see the eerie pallor beneath the skin. There was no question he was already near death. The wounds and bruises on his neck and hands showed that he had fought back before, but there was no fight left in him now as his eyes couldn't focus and he swayed slightly as Irène held his arm.

"Where were you from, son?" Christophe asked as he moved slowly behind so his victim wouldn't see the death blow coming.

There was no answer. Where did most refugees come from these days? Iraq probably, Eritrea maybe, escaping the horrors of home to seek a better world and finding … this.…There was a sudden crack of a neck breaking. Brutal. Quick. Vaguely boring. He buried his head in the silky, metallic depths as he drew out the very last of the blood and then lowered the body to the floor with a soft sigh.

Christophe walked back to stare out of the window once again, wiping his hands on the small towel Irène had thoughtfully given him, then running them through his short dark-blond hair.

Where was he? Oh yes, it would be interesting to see whether the Irishman had settled back into the fold. Maybe he'd prefer to return to London instead. He would fit in much better here. After all, the dust had settled over the whole Josie affair, and if Christophe was honest, Mr Mitchell wasn't exactly the first vampire to have given the 'let's pretend to be human' thing a go at sometime or another. Hell, even Christophe himself had tried it once upon a time. The only thing one could really hold against the man was that he had been good at it for so long. He could be quite an asset - under the right circumstances.

Yes. Fifteen years was too long to have stayed away, and Bristol was always a pleasure.


	3. Turner Road

Rachel Chadwick stopped for a second to catch her breath outside the office door. God knows how an alarm clock can go off at seven-thirty and two minutes later it's eight forty-two exactly, but it seemed all sorts of inexplicable things can happen daily, in Bristol at least.

Her reflection in the window was, as ever, a disappointment. Most of her family managed to look chic and elegant without even trying. Louisa puts on one coat of red lipstick and instantly looks like a movie star. How does she do that? Rachel's shirt was already just a bit crumpled despite having been ironed last night, and her hair... she sighed in resignation. Cutting it shorter hadn't had the desired affect, somehow she looked more windswept than ever. Barry said it was cute. Sod him, he always knew just how to tease for maximum impact. He was a good friend, but that didn't stop her threatening to delete all his files - and meaning it.

A smattering of applause broke out as she walked through the door. Giving a little curtsy in acknowledgement, she threw her handbag onto the floor next to her desk.

"Not bad," Barry called across, "earlier than yesterday." He picked up a file and his denim jacket and walked over to lean his too-tall lanky frame against the edge of her desk. His smile was always infectious and his good humour made light of a massive workload.

"Of course, we'll all pretend not to know you left here way too late last night. You didn't even make it to The Shakespeare to join us for a pint. Work-life balance is not in your vocabulary, is it?  You don't have to answer that. Sorry to love you and leave you, Rach, but I've got to get over to the hospital. Emergency callout."

"You're not on call today are you?"

"No, but they asked for me, so..." He shrugged and picked up his case, jamming the file in. "Anyway, Miles is showing the new guy the ropes and wants you to take over while he's in court. Mitchell his name is. Mitchell, um... damn, I can't remember his surname. Anyway, I'll catch you later."

He was out of the door before she could even ask him how his weekend had gone. She wanted to know all about that hot date he'd been trying to be so casual about. He's a star, she thought, let's hope the date had appreciated how lucky she was to have landed him.

The new guy - she'd forgotten all about him. Miles had told her that an old contact of his was sending someone round to help him out on a case. What a pain. With a caseload you could drown in the last thing she needed was to waste her time babysitting this Mitchell. Then again, however much he tried to hide it from her, she knew Miles was worried about this case, and any extra help could take some of the strain off him. It was a worry, her father didn't usually get stressed by work, but something was different this time. 

A huge mug of tea materialised next to her computer.

''I'm sure you haven't eaten any breakfast, so you'll be needing this." That was Kurshida, a kind soul with a mind like a steel trap. By rights she should be running a multinational corporate law firm, but instead here she was, volunteering on Mondays and Fridays when the centre was at its busiest and assessing the flotsam and jetsam that came in through the door with calm efficiency. The stream of people facing eviction notices, debt, homelessness, deportation, abuse, were in the best possible hands with her.

"Miles is setting up Mitchell in the old office," she said, "and I'm starting to move the files in there now. He's lovely, by the way. I don't think he's quite your type though."

Before Rachel had a chance to quiz her about what exactly her type was supposed to be, Kurshida broke off to pick up a call "Turner Road Community Law Centre, how can I help you?"

The sound of voices drew her attention to the back of the office. Miles was showing the new man around. He was tall and lean with broad shoulders and slim hips, weaving between the desks with the unconscious grace of a cat. Everything about him was dark against the white walls and filing cabinets. She noted his nearly-black curls and brows, black jeans and blacker shirt. If it wasn't for the red t-shirt underneath she'd have thought him printed entirely in grayscale. And Kurshida was, as always, right: not her type - though she could think of a few friends who'd want to eat him for breakfast. To tell the truth, she liked someone a little more sunny and a little less brooding-looking. It was lucky Kurshida had decided this Mitchell could do with a kind welcome, because at least that would leave her free to get on with her work.

* * *

 

Mitchell walked to the door of the windowless office waiting for Miles to return. Turner Road Community Law Centre was nothing like the gleaming solicitor's office he had been dreading. No wonder Herrick had a twinkle in his eye when telling Mitchell that he really must polish his one good pair of shoes. At least he had stopped short of suggesting a decent shave and a tie, but only just. The old bastard.

The office he had been given, no scratch that, the cupboard he had been squeezed into was barely big enough to contain the desk and the piles of files that just kept coming. He leant his shoulder against the door frame and a smile raised a corner of his mouth as he took in the equally unimpressive main office in front of him. Three desks and what looked like a thousand filing cabinets were crammed in. A small interview room sat off to the side, and then there was the kitchen and Miles' office. That was it. No polished marble or wall to wall mirrors here. In fact there were no mirrors at all, and no real wood to polish either by the look of it. No-one was paying much attention to him, they were too busy and he blended in just fine.

All in all it was a vampire's safe-haven and he felt his body relaxing, maybe he could do this after all.

There had been a new arrival since he had turned up this morning, and Mitchell took his time assessing her - medium height, slight, probably mid to late-twenties, dark jeans and a pale blue shirt, with  hair cut short and choppy. It suited her. She glanced up at him as if she had felt his appraisal and her wide hazel-green eyes scrutinised him back with some ferocity. Interesting, but not too interesting, Mitchell thought. Yes. He could do this just fine.

"That's Rachel, my daughter." Miles handed Mitchell the last of the files. "She keeps everything going while I flit between this and my private practice up in Clifton." He lowered his voice and turned to face Mitchell. "I must ask you to treat her with total discretion and respect, please. I would like you to give me your word on that." Despite the politeness of the words, there was a new sharpness in his tone.

Mitchell didn't bother to ask what he meant, just nodded his consent. "Of course, absolutely, you can trust me."

The look on Miles' face told Mitchell that was the very last thing he was prepared to do, but he didn't pursue the matter.

"Mr Herrick wants you to check over the preparations for this shipment." He handed over the file. "Everything is completely in order, but feel free to make any enquiries you consider necessary. I'm in court this week but I will call in when I can. In the meantime Rachel will get you anything you need, or sort out a computer for you if you want one, but I would be grateful if you could try not to disrupt the work of the Centre too much."

Mitchell sat back in the office chair and watched as Miles took his leave. He looked older than his years and tired, but distinguished in his way. The suit was expensive, the shoes were shining, and there wasn't a grey hair out of place. He was every inch the lawyer.

Mitchell pulled the file towards him and started to read.

Despite endless cups of coffee Mitchell was bored out of his mind by four o'clock. By now he had read the file a hundred times and couldn't see anything out of place. The carpet shipment had successfully made its way from Bolivia to Brazil and had left Sao Paulo by container ship days ago - on time with no delays and no problems with the export license or border controls. He'd been so bored he'd even conscientiously telephoned the Brazilian contact noted in the papers to double-check all the details. Miles wouldn't thank him for running up that phone-bill.

He was at a loss to see what Herrick had been so concerned about. Surely he wasn't expected to do this every day. Was it possible for vampires to die out of pure boredom, he wondered, maybe he would set a precedent. Circling the tiny room like a very pissed off caged tiger Mitchell decided it was time to get out of there, whatever Herrick might be expecting.

The main office was humming with activity. Rachel glanced up at him briefly, a frown appearing on her forehead, and she turned her attention pointedly back to the computer screen. Fair enough, he thought.

Kurshida smiled up at him while still expertly balancing the phone on her shoulder, and Mitchell found himself leaning towards her. "Cup of tea?" he whispered. She nodded with enthusiasm. Why not? he asked himself, she'd been kind to him. Despite Herrick's melodramatic warnings about 'fraternising', what could it hurt to make one cup.

He was still chatting to Kurshida twenty minutes later, and knew far more than he needed about local schools, when Barry walked in. There was something in his demeanour that telegraphed his distress. He went straight to his chair and sat down, shoulders hunched. Rachel left her computer for the first time that day, and hurried over to him. She rubbed his arm in concern, "Barry, tell me."

"It's Robbie."

"Oh no." Kurshida obviously knew instantly what had happened, but Mitchell could see that Rachel was still confused.

"You remember me talking about Robbie," Barry started to explain, "he spent some time at St. Chris' hostel and I got to know him a bit when I was helping out there. He was trying to get himself together, you know, post traumatic stress disorder, serving in Iraq really fucked him up. He lost his family. You should have heard the way he talked about his kids, there was so much love there but he just couldn't... He tried so hard, and sometimes things were good, but he fell off the wagon a couple of months ago and pretty much disappeared. I got the call from the hospital this morning, he was found under the arches in a terrible state and taken in."

Mitchell could feel the sudden panic rise in him. The ground had lurched under his feet, and he grasped the edge of the desk. When would these people turn to look at him and know, just know... He pushed the fear back down and forced his rational mind to take over. It was fine, they didn't know - they never knew - he just needed to keep quiet and keep his head down. Everything would be fine.

"I managed to get to see him, and sit with him, but he was so weak he just couldn't hold on. I sat there and watched him die."

Rachel rubbed his arm again gently. "I'm glad you were there," she said, "he didn't die alone, that's important, you were there."

Barry straightened his shoulders "They said he OD'd, but he must have been beaten up too because his head and throat were in a really bad way, like he'd been mangled somehow. No-one seemed to care about that. He was just another drugged-up vagrant to the police. Some sanctimonious little police git told me to calm down and mind my own business, they'd take care of things. I bet they bloody won't."

"Oh god Barry, I'm so sorry." Rachel put her arms around him for a moment. "Look, go home, call your girlfriend and have an evening together."

"Girlfriend? Oh, no, that didn't work out. But I will go home, I think it's time for beer and pizza and a couple of mates round." He didn't look convinced by his own words, but after hugging Rachel and Kurshida, and shaking Mitchell's hand, he headed out of the office. Mitchell could almost feel his hand burning.

"You go too, Kurshida, Mitchell and I can lock up later." Rachel gave Mitchell no chance to disagree. All he wanted to do was run, get out of there, but his brain failed to come up with an excuse and it seemed he'd have to stick it out a little while longer.

As soon as the phones were redirected for the evening and the place was quiet, Rachel walked over to Mitchell and fixed a cool green gaze directly on his face. It had been a long time since a woman had made him feel this uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry about your friend..." he started to say, but she cut him short.

"Would you mind coming into Miles' office for a minute?" She asked with steely politeness.

"Sure."

The office was a little bit bigger and a little bit grander than the others. Along with the desk there were a couple of comfortable chairs and a small coffee table in the corner.

"Please, sit", Rachel gestured towards one of the chairs.

Curious about where this was leading Mitchell did as he was asked. As she sat in the chair opposite he waited, this was her game.

He watched her reach down into the depths of her handbag and pull something out which she rested in her lap, his eyebrows raised with amusement and he leant back slightly, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"You're one of them, aren't you." she said quietly. It wasn't a question.

"One of what, exactly?"

"I've been thinking about it all day. It was the name my father used, the man he said had recommended you, it was an unusual name and I recognised it but couldn't remember why. It's been going round and round in my head. I ended up searching through some of our old files on the computer, and there he was. That's when I realised what's going on here. You're one of them."

"Errrr. I'm really sorry Rachel, but I don't know what you're talking about." He fixed the innocent smile on his face and tilted his head a little in apparent puzzlement.

"OK." Her voice didn't waver and she held out whatever she'd retrieved from her bag towards him. "Could you look into this for me?"

Jesus Christ. Mitchell stared down at the mirror in her hand. For a moment the world stopped as the two of them looked at each other. The silence stretched out as neither made a move.

"Aren't you afraid of me?" Mitchell said softly, not taking his eyes from hers.

He heard the intake of her breath and felt the sudden rush of her uncontrollable heartbeat. Oh yes, she was afraid. He leant forward, feeling the spark of excitement, the heightening of senses stirring deep within him, unbidden. This wasn't hunger, it was the darkest of desires, it was the exquisite anticipation held in that moment just before bringing down your prey. It was the expectation of lust satisfied.

"Of course I'm afraid of you. I know what you are, I know what you do. I've grown up knowing you. You're part of my life, and I'm scared because right now you're working out whether or not you should tear my throat out."

* * *

 

It was turning colder as Barry got off the bus and started to walk up the hill towards his flat. His plaid shirt and denim jacket were not much protection from the icy wind that was blowing down the hill into his face. He wrapped his long arms around himself and put his head down. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow he'd pluck up the courage to ask Rachel. Not a date, just a meal, or a drink, or a coffee. Shit, anything. Watching Robbie die like that, just slipping away, had made him think about a few things and one of them was Rachel. There's never enough time, and he had to stop wasting it.

"Hiya Barry, mate."

The voice startled him.

"Yeah?" he said automatically. Looking up he saw a man with short cropped hair and sharp features walking directly towards him. There was a swagger in his walk and his long dark coat was buttoned up to the neck. Barry was sure he'd never met him before.

"You really shouldn't have done it." the man said, shaking his head.

"Sorry? Done what? Do I know you ...?" Barry glanced around. There was no-one else on the street. He started to move towards the kerb in case he might have to make a run for it.

Cutting off his path the man moved quickly, his leather-gloved hands grabbed Barry's arms and pushed him back against the wall to the gardens.

"You shouldn't have kicked up a fuss in the hospital about the dead drunk. Such a waste of everyone's time. And you see, we don't like that. It pisses us off."

He should have fought back, or yelled for help, anything, but as soon as he saw the man's eyes turn as black as the night he was paralysed. Then there was pain.

And then it was too late.

 


	4. Poker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pizza and vampires

Mitchell dropped his red hot gaze, his focus blurring as the pulse racing in her neck beat audibly in his head. The girl was achingly human.

_Feed. Drink. You can take her now._

Her voice took on a brittle edge. “Tell me that's _not_ what you're thinking… ripping my throat out.”

A challenge or a plea, either way there was no reason for him to lie. His throat scratched, and he coughed to clear it.

“You say you know me. Know us. Then why the fuck would I deny it? What would be the point?”

“None. At least you’re honest. It’s not what you think…” She gulped in a breath to slow herself. “I’m not any kind of risk to you. None of you. No threat. It’s safe here, it’s just…”

“Doesn’t feel like that from where I’m sitting.” He gestured towards the mirror gripped between white knuckles. “A summons and a test. Now that just isn’t friendly. What else is in that bag? A pocket-sized stake or two? I wouldn’t recommend you try it, darlin’.”

Mitchell ignored her protests. The chair scraped back along the tiles as he stood up and started to circle the room, tearing a hand through his hair as he prowled. The movement made it easier to focus, and the adrenaline started to dissipate with each circuit.

She was still talking, slow and careful. “So, what have you decided Mitchell? Are you going to hurt me?"

Mitchell stopped behind her, looking down as she sat so very still with hands clenched. His brows knitted together and it was endless seconds before he answered.

"Of course I'm not. I'm just here to do a job. You're safe with me, too.”

Even as ‘you’re safe’ left his lips Mitchell felt the hollowness of the promise. He took a few steps to face her. The tiny lift to her eyebrows told him Rachel recognised the pretence.

“For now.” Mitchell had no idea why he said that.

“For now. Yes.” She whispered, as if to herself.

Then for the first time that day Rachel smiled. Her smile was wary but it was real. Mitchell felt the last feathered edges of red mist fall away. Apparently it was true, she was safe with him for now. It seemed some kind of a deal had been struck and he remained fixed where he stood, afraid that a sudden movement would shatter the fragile acceptance. This was her game and the next step had to be hers.

Rachel dropped the mirror back into the depths of her bag, stood, and stepped towards him. He felt himself involuntarily edging back in surprise when she held out her hand.

“Hi. Welcome to Turner Road. I’m Rachel Chadwick, I'm a lawyer here."

"Mitchell. Vampire.” He shook her hand with an odd formality.

"Hmm. Vampire. So that's all you are then? Vampire? Nothing else? If you don't mind I'd like to know a bit more than just that. For instance, I'd quite like to know why the hell you are in my office messing up our filing system."

Her tone was teasing but Mitchell wasn’t in a sharing mood. He folded his arms, sending a pretty clear signal he wasn't going to be so easily won over. He was relieved when Rachel didn't press the question, but instead glanced towards the door.

"Anyway," she shrugged, "the truth is I'm really hungry and there's this great snack place just down the road. So, are you coming?" She picked up her bag. “My treat".

He shouldn't. He knew he really shouldn't.

Herrick would roll his eyes and mutter on darkly about 'fraternising' and the dangers of 'collaboration'. There'd be more remarks about his recklessness around pretty human girls – getting in too deep until the inevitable, and leaving a shit-awful mess to clean up. But maybe this was why Herrick had sent him in the first place. Nothing to do with shipments and everything to do with what she knew - or thought she knew - about vampires. That made it a necessity, not an indulgence.

He nodded.

 

They walked the five minutes to the tiny restaurant at the corner of Turner Road side by side and in complete silence, Mitchell wrapping his arms across his chest and sheltering his hands under them. God, it was getting so cold he could see his breath in the air.

Judging by the flurry of welcome kisses showered on Rachel by the waiter this was a favourite place. There were no kisses for Mitchell, and he couldn't help but notice the  waiter’s disapproving looks as he showed them to a quiet corner. Rachel smirked as they slid either side of the table nestled in behind a vine-clad partition.

"Don't let Sandrino get to you, he's been nagging me to ask Barry out on a date for months, so he's not pleased to see you at all. Between us, I don't think it's because he's a romantic. I think the guys in here are running a book on when Barry and I get it together and he's worried he's going to lose his bet."

"I'll see what I can do to help.” Mitchell grinned back. "I might even place a bet myself."

"Don't waste your money, Barry's too good a friend to risk screwing things up."

After Sandrino brought them two beers and slices of piping hot pizza, Mitchell had a chance to take in the surroundings. They were far enough from the handful of early diners to talk without being heard, but not so hidden he could get away with hurting her. Clever woman, getting him out of a deserted windowless office and into a public space before annoying him with more questions, or threatening him with whatever she had hidden in that bottomless handbag. There were no mirrors down this end of the room to freak out the waiter either. She must have known that when she asked for this table. Interesting.

"Well, I dragged you here so I suppose I should go first. Me and vampires. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

She tracked his reaction over the rim of her beer glass which made him smile a little and he settled back, tilting his own glass in her direction in acknowledgement. Against all better judgment he was enjoying this.

"Your Sandrino may be a bit of a shit but he makes a great pizza. OK. You talk, I'll eat. Tell me."

"He's lovely. Just 'cos he doesn't trust you, and he's right... OK. The truth is I don't remember the first time I met a vampire. I'm told it was on the day I was born, so that's not surprising, but I’ll never forget when I found out for certain. There had always been a stream of people coming to visit my father. Day and night. Shadowy figures in the hallway, someone creeping out through the back door, never bothering to speak to me. They'd huddle together in our front room and afterwards I'd never see them again. Strange what can become normal.

“Then one night my father was delayed, and instead of ignoring me one of the ‘guests’ started to talk. It felt wrong to speak to him. He asked lots of inconsequential questions about school, but was so obviously bored with my answers it was laughable. Eventually I snapped something back at him. I was fourteen so I was brave, stroppy and terrifyingly naïve. He looked at me then. Really looked. It still makes me shiver when I think of it. Like I was transgressing some rule I didn’t even know existed. I was going to run away - that was the only sane response. Then he asked if I could play cards.

"I can still see him, sitting across the little round table from me. He was elegant in a way no boy at school could match. Softly-spoken. In his late thirties I’d guess now. Tall, I think, though that might be me making him more than he actually was. Short dark-blond hair, pale skin, and grey eyes that seemed to go on forever, as if they'd seen everything in the world. It was the eyes that repelled me and hypnotised me at the same time. Like a snake. Cold. But he made me laugh, and before I could remind myself to run, I was entranced.”

"Did you ask his name or where he was from?" The description hadn’t narrowed things down enough, but definitely not part of the regular Bristol scene.

"No, but he spoke perfect English, maybe too perfect because there was the touch of an accent in there, but I couldn't place it. Anyway, I was too busy being mercilessly teased while he taught me how to play poker."

Mitchell snorted into his beer. "Jesus. Of course it was poker! A vampire wouldn't dream of teaching a fourteen year old anything else. Like snap, maybe."

Rachel's smile returned, softening her face. "He was a good teacher, though he made fun of me for not disguising my hand. He decided I needed to learn how to be impassive, as if a poker face was the most important life skill I could master."

"Well, you played a good one on me, sweetheart."

Mitchell liked the low, soft sound of her laughter.

"Yeah, well, I guess it turned out he was right about that."

"So when did you realise he wasn't exactly in his thirties? Did he let slip about the time he sat on a hillside and watched the Charge of the Light Brigade or something?"

"No. My father came back. I'd seen him worried before, but never terrified. He remained polite but his fear was palpable, and that scared me too. Later that night, after the man left, Dad took me into the front room. He sat me down in the brown leather chair that was too big and too uncomfortable for me, and told me everything -“

“Let me guess. He told you he's been in the pay of vampires for years - shielding us from exposure, tipping us off about the destitute who come into the law centre with their strange stories of monsters in the night, giving us visas and identity papers so we can get jobs, or just get away. Helping pillars of the community like Herrick bury the bones. The same old story of human greed. And the payoff is his grand townhouse in leafy Clifton, and dragging you into this little horror show.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Mitchell watched the shutters crashing down across Rachel's face and all the warmth draining away.

“If you say so.”

"You're not alone.” His voice much gentler. “There's a whole army of people out there helping to keep us secret. How do you think we could survive without them?"

"I wouldn't know. Dad's kept so many secrets from me, including you and your boss. What exactly is going on?"

"Nothing.”

“It’s not ‘nothing’.”

“Look, I’m just checking the files. I dunno.”

“‘I dunno’ isn't much of an answer, Mitchell."

“But I _don't_ know. You know the files, there’s nothing secret about them, so your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps Herrick wants me out of the way for a bit so he's burying me in pointless paperwork. Not even vampires escape paperwork. Y'know we probably spend more time - “

“Stop. I don't believe you. You're a smart guy, if you really don't know then I'm sure you've got a theory or two."

"Nope. 'Fraid not."

"OK. Well I guess that's the end of _that_ conversation - “

A bell rang from under the table, making Rachel jump.

"Oh shit, what now?" She dragged her phone from the depths of her handbag and checked the text.

“Um. I’ve got to go. It's Barry. He's gone to stay with his brother up in Burnley. Robbie's death must have shaken him up worse than I thought. I'll have to go and reschedule the advice surgery, and, um, redirect the phones, and… I wish he'd phoned … I want to talk to him… hope he's alright …. I'll see you tomorrow Mitchell, or whenever …"

Rachel pushed the barely touched pizza away as Mitchell said his goodnights, grabbed her coat and headed over to the till to settle the bill.

Leaning back Mitchell watched her through the window as she rushed up the street, wrapping her overlong scarf around her neck. She didn't seem the type to let things go so  easily. If he wasn't giving her the answers then he was pretty sure she'd keep digging until she had a theory or two of her own. He'd have to keep a very close eye on her from now on. This annoyed him more than was reasonable.

 

"Well look at you, getting all cosy with the boss's pretty daughter. Careful Mitchell, we wouldn't want to see you making a mess of her."

Mitchell looked up to see a man with a buttoned-up long black coat, tightly cropped hair and just the hint of a sneer on his lips hovering at the edge of his table.

"Nice to see you too, Seth. What are you doing here? Can't keep away?"

Mitchell stood and leant slightly forward over the table, taking pleasure from the quick flicker of alarm that passed across the other vampire's face.

"Surely you're not following me around. Again."

He reached to pick up his jacket just as Seth put down the mobile phone he'd been ostentatiously spinning in his hand and took off shiny black leather gloves to reach for a slice of pizza.

"Of course I'm not following you, sunshine. But waste not, want not.” He grinned broadly, choosing the biggest slice. “Not that I'm hungry anymore".

"Ah shit. Have you been feeding again already? Christ, Seth. There's a limit to how many locals we can disappear in a week you know." Mitchell sighed.

"This one was a bit of damage limitation by order of our esteemed leader. The guy picked the wrong death to get all suspicious about, poor sod. Not staying Mitchell? It's good pizza."

"I'm fine, I'm not hungry. I need a fag though. See you later."

Mitchell heard Seth whisper behind him as he walked away - “Oh I think you're very hungry, mate."

He walked faster, as if that could stop it being true.

 

Mitchell sucked in the last of the comforting smoke from his cigarette as he sheltered from the biting wind in the shop doorway. He felt so cold, but at least the smoke warmed him up a bit from the inside. He glanced back at Sandrino's restaurant, wishing he could step back into the warmth rather than heading back to his chilly little flat.

Fuck Seth, what was it about him that always put Mitchell into such a fuckin' foul mood.

Dropping the cigarette butt on the floor and stamping on it vigorously with his foot, he rubbed his hands together for a second, then hunched his shoulders and started back up the road towards his car.

As he passed the end of Turner Road he looked up from the ground only to see Rachel again, lit under the spotlight of a streetlamp while she locked up the Law Centre and headed across to her parking place clutching a pile of files. It was no surprise that she'd decided to check those files and come up with a theory or two overnight. Damn, he'd been spot on, now he'd have to keep going back to bloody Turner Road to find out what she was up to. Annoying woman.

Just as Rachel's car pulled away from the kerb and Mitchell strode on towards the Volvo, his attention was caught by a figure stepping out from the shadows and clambering quickly into a nondescript dark car parked just behind Rachel’s, taking off with a small squeak of tyres as it sped to catch up.

Oh Christ. Mitchell felt a sudden churn of panic in the pit of his stomach.

Seth hadn't been following him after all, he was following Rachel.

This was definitely not good.

 

* * *

 

Christophe allowed himself a smile as he parked the car outside B. Edwards Funeral Parlour. Ah Herrick, nothing changes, always one with a taste for the gothic, you old goat.

As he walked through the door in his immaculate light suit, polished shoes and good haircut it only took a second for him to realise how out of place he was among all the sombre cheap suits. A bell ringing over the door had announced his entrance with a little fanfare, and he relished taking the time to absorb the mingled looks of admiration and fear on the faces of the few vampires sitting in the lobby.

How very gratifying.

A familiar avuncular figure stood up immediately and stepped out from behind a tired old mahogany desk smiling broadly with his arms outstretched in welcome.

"Christophe, how wonderful to see you, please come in.”

"It's been a long time, Herrick. It's good to be back in Bristol again."


	5. The Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'Mitchell files' devastate Rachel. Luckily she's not going to do anything stupid...

Christophe admired the refreshments ranged across the low table set with silver trays. He didn't resist giving a glass a sharp tap with his ring to hear it sound, and smiled to think Herrick had brought out the best crystal for his benefit. He hoped this was a sign that the bourgeois upstart recognised his place in the proper order. The funeral parlour was too chilly for his tastes, but fair play, no detail had been overlooked. Comfortably ensconced in one of the mismatched armchairs arranged around the table, he humoured his host who was bemoaning the state of the modern world. Biting back his irritation, Christophe finally leant forward and turned the conversation towards business.

“Let's get up to date with where we are, shall we.”

Listening as Herrick talked through developments at the Bristol-end of the operation, Christophe congratulated himself for routing the shipment via Bristol. It was no surprise he had made the right decision, and Herrick’s attention to detail was certainly impressive, if more than a little tiresome to hear about at length.

By the time most of the finer details were resolved there was a tentative knock on the office door.

Christophe watched with amusement as a neat elderly lady with grey hair swept up into a bun doggedly insisted on dragging the leather jacket from the shoulders of a young-looking man as she ushered him into this inner sanctum.

The man tried to pull away, protesting that the room was always too cold, but she was stronger and more persistent than she looked. She chuckled and nodded towards Herrick as she left, clutching the coat like a trophy, and closed the door with a bang behind her.

The man brought an energy with him, a new tension. He didn't look much – lean and good-looking in a chaotic way - but there was something else. The atmosphere in the room noticeably changed and Christophe couldn't quite get a handle on him. Herrick interrupted their conversation to step forward, resting a hand on the new man's shoulder and draw him towards an empty chair.

“Hello soldier. Perfect timing as always. Let me introduce Christophe, I don't believe you have met before. Christophe has kindly made the journey to take delivery in person.”

Herrick lent down to retrieve his glass, taking a delicate sip before dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Mitchell's our man on the inside.”

So here was the Irish recruit. At last.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr Mitchell.”

Mitchell shook the hand Christophe extended and made his own polite greetings until the three of them sat together, Mitchell angling his body away from the table.

“There’s not much to report to be honest.” he said. “Everything's gone according to plan, with no fuck-ups along the way. The ship is still scheduled to dock on Sunday and all the agreed port and customs officials are confirmed on duty for the day, I double-checked them this morning. The driver you arranged got in touch yesterday, so he's ready to go with the container. This'll be a straightforward pick up for you guys.”

“That is very reassuring, thank you.” Christophe smiled with approval. "What about the  Law Centre? Has Chadwick sorted out the papers for our friend? I would like to remove her to London immediately as the flight on to Prague has been arranged for Monday evening.”

“Yes. The paperwork's on file. It's all good.”

Christophe half turned towards Herrick and raised his glass. “Congratulations, Herrick, it's good to see you running such a tight ship. Here's to a successful conclusion.”

“Mitchell, I'm so sorry, you don't have a drink.” Herrick immediately started fussing, ignoring his friend’s protest. “Here let me get you something, it's rather pleasant.” He poured from the decanter into the largest glass he could find. “To Sunday.” He echoed the toast,  eyes fixed on his protégé.

Christophe caught tremor running through Mitchell's hand as he held the glass and took another sip of his own. Mitchell seemed transfixed by the contents. Good lord, how long had it been since the lad last fed properly? There was a hesitation as he raised the spiced blood to his mouth, but once Mitchell started to drink the glass didn't leave his lips, he kept swallowing until it was drained. The lad was starved.

The details had been sorted, small talk concluded and Mitchell fidgeted until they were done and he stood to leave. If he could have left the room running, he probably would.

“An interesting man, your Mitchell, if a bit jittery. You need to feed him up a bit.”

Herrick straightened his back before responding - somewhat defensive, Christophe thought. He'd struck a nerve there.

“Well you'll have heard about John Mitchell, of course. Since he came back to Bristol I suspect he's been holding his considerable appetites on a tight rein.” Herrick shook his head, whether in embarrassment or disappointment Christophe wasn't sure, maybe it was both. “Between us, it's painful to watch, but I learnt long ago the tighter I rein him the less he complies. It’s just a phase, he'll sort himself out soon enough; he's almost ready, just a nudge or two at the right moment is all it will take now.”

Christophe swirled the liquid remaining in his glass. The quality was passable, and the silky warmth still held enough traces of life for it to heat his senses.

“Ah William. You would be surprised how many of our most impressive recruits have had a little crisis along the way - well not you, obviously - but it can be a valuable rite of passage. We come out of it stronger, more aware of who we are.

“You see, tempering the best steel makes it tougher and more resilient, but it’s a delicate task for the maker.  One mistake and you are left with a weapon that will too easily break. There is a balance to be struck between the strength of a blade and its ability not to fracture. The temperature must be exactly right at the perfect moment, and it's different for each of us.

“But the best blades are always worth the extra effort."

 ~~~~~~~~~~

Rachel looked up with a jerk at the sound of a car door slamming outside her living room window.  The streetlights had blinked on, and another mug of coffee sat stone cold next to her. The screen of the phone swam before her eyes in a haze. It didn’t make any difference how long she stared or stabbed at the keys, Barry wasn’t going to speak to her. Perhaps leaving three messages in as many hours had been overkill, but she’d eventually coaxed out a brief text reply, so that was something.

' _hi love. got 2 Burnley. train late. gotta go. brother picking me up. phone running out of juice. cu'_  he'd sent.

As if that would stop her worrying, and what was all that with 'cu' and calling her ‘love’ for Christ’s sake, since when did he talk to her like that? He was just being… weird.

And now, two days later, she was still waiting.  She’d even checked his records for another contact number. It was a sneaky move and she’d had the grace to blush as she rifled through his papers, but it had been useless. There was no sign of any brother, and the couple of mutual friends they had were getting the same silent treatment.

After bringing the ‘Mitchell Files’ home she’d locked the door and not opened it again. Hypocritically under the circumstances, her answerphone was on and all calls ignored. For two, no, three days now she hadn't spoken to a single soul. No way could she discuss this with friends, and her father was implicated. So it was Friday evening and the floor was still strewn with papers she couldn't stop reading and re-rereading.

How stupid she’d been. Stupid and naive. Stupid and complacent. Stupid and culpable.

No-one was importing carpets. It _had_ to be people. Ship in people who don't exist in the eyes of the state and then you can do anything you want to them and who's to ask inconvenient questions? The world doesn’t notice. Or it doesn’t care enough to look.

Rachel dropped her head into her hands. The shame was suffocating. She wracked her memory for how many times she passed on a message, or sent an innocuous-looking letter. There was nowhere to hide.

The bile rose in her throat again, but there was nothing left to throw up. No way of cleansing herself. So this is what it feels like to protect vampires.

Mitchell had claimed not to have any theories about what was going on - and that was absolute bollocks. He knew.

There was one last phone call she could make. Rachel didn’t need to check the number before dialling.

_'Louisa? It's Rachel. I don’t know where you are, so I’m sorry if this wakes you up. And don’t panic but - I need to talk to you. Soon. Please call me back. It doesn’t matter what time it is. Just call. Please. Thanks. Bye.'_

Rachel had barely made it to the kitchen to make the dose of the caffeine her exhausted body craved when the phone beeped behind her. Rushing back she grabbed it off the sofa and jabbed at the text message. She stared, dumbfounded. It wasn’t Louisa or Barry.

' _Rachel. I know what's going on. We need to talk. My place. I’m on my way with proof. If you get there before me there’s a key on top of the door frame. 42b Denmark Lane. Let yourself in. Soon as you can. Mitchell’_

She ignored it. Louisa would ring soon, Barry might call, but they didn’t.

After another two hours reading the same documents over and over, the need to scream and rail and cry and just _talk_ started to overwhelm her.

Rachel grabbed her car keys.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mitchell paced his flat, round and round the tiny space. He barely broke the rhythm when his shin crashed against furniture. The pain didn’t even register.

He'd eaten as much food as he could find in the kitchen indiscriminately, and was already most of the way though a bottle of pretty decent red wine. It wasn't helping, of course, but then he didn't expect it to. As soon as he'd accepted the blood from Herrick he knew this would be the consequence. Once triggered this hunger would rage within him for hours, days, scratching at him and growing in ferocity until it was satisfied. He could feel the clawing starting in his gut and this was just the beginning. He wouldn't leave the flat, there was still a chance that he could get through this if he just locked himself away. It had been less than a week since he'd fed from the soldier, _killed_ the soldier, so it was possible that if he stayed focussed he might be able to hold on. It was all he could hang on to, but if he remembered the soldier he remembered the blood as it slid down his throat, and warmed his veins...

He crossed to the record player stacked in the corner, put on the first record his hand touched in the cardboard box beside it and turned the volume up as high as it could go to drown out his thoughts.

Later, he sat in silence on the floor in the corner of the tiny room and watched through the grubby little window as the night fell. He listened as the streets started to fill up with people out a Friday night making their way to the bars and restaurants of the city centre. This was bloody ridiculous. He threw the empty bottle against the wall. Who was he kidding anyway, who was here to care what he did, there was no-one here to ask him, no-one here for him to explain to. It's not like he was clean any more so he'd need to feed again soon anyway. Why go on pretending it mattered whether he fed once a day or once a month? Why should it matter. It was food. Survival. It was nothing personal. He'd make sure it wasn't personal because personal was messy and... screwed him up and... he just wanted... wanted... peace.

Fuck it. What he needed to do was pull himself together, get out there, have a quick drink, and then sort out the shipment. He'd be able to concentrate once he'd fed, and he needed to think straight if he was going to find a way of keeping Rachel's nose out of the operation for a couple more days, because that was the only way the job would be successful for Herrick's sake - and the only way to keep her safe.

Even as he took a step towards the door, he heard a knock. Rooted to the spot he waited - it might have been his imagination. But then there was a second knock, more urgent this time. "Mitchell, are you there?"

His body swayed. It was definitely Rachel, but how had she found out where he lived? Was she following him with a little mirror and a stake buried in her handbag? It didn't matter, just stay focussed, he told himself, she'd go away soon enough. But then he felt the sudden agony cleave through him. She was only yards away and he knew he wanted her. Not another faceless drunk collapsed against a pub back wall. No, he wanted _her_ , his body demanded it. In the end it was always personal. Flesh on flesh.

There was a strange scrabbling sound from behind the door. "Ah shit." he heard, then, "Got ya". And then somehow a key turned in the lock and the door opened.

She was out of breath, flushed from the cold evening air, and so fucking alive as she pushed the door closed behind her.

"Mitchell! I'm so sorry. I thought you weren't in yet. I hope it's alright," she gestured towards the door behind her, "you said that I could... Mitchell, are you OK?"

"What? I said what?" Mitchell shook his head to clear the pounding in his temples. "Not now Rachel, please leave, we can talk later." He turned his back and walked quickly away from her to lean against the arm of the low sofa.

"You're not OK, are you?" her voice sounded much harder as she followed him, moving closer. "Wait a minute, tell me what's happening."

He was stifling the pain, pushing it down deep where it transformed into a guttural groan so wrenching he felt Rachel reach out to rub his back in some feeble human attempt to make him feel better. He turned his face to her with a snap and hissed, "Get away from me." He knew the irises of his eyes were already jet-black when she stepped back as if burnt.

She backed towards the door, not taking her eyes off him. Oh Jesus. Thank God. She was going to run. But then he heard the key turn in the lock.

"What are you doing, Rachel get out. I'll hurt you."

"I've seen this before, Mitchell, and if I let you leave this room, you'll kill someone."

"Christ, Rachel, don't you understand, leave - if you don't get out of my way right now that someone is going to be you."

"But why shouldn't it be? Why is it better to kill a stranger? We've only known each other five minutes so what's the difference? Why should I save myself by sacrificing someone else. Do you think I could _ever_ forgive myself for that? This isn't about you, it's about me, and you are not leaving this flat."

"I can't. I can't..."

"Then you'll have to find a way to stop."

In a hot second Mitchell lurched from desperation to fury.

"Stop? Fuck, woman! You have no idea what that means. I spent weeks tied to a fuckin' chair stopping myself. Would you like me to describe what that was like? Because there's no way I could survive anything like that again."

"If you can hold out it will stop."

"Yeah, eventually, but I'll have torn you and everything else in this flat to pieces days before that happens."

"So is there a way to buy time, to just get you through tonight?"

"Stop asking me."

"Could animal blood help?"

"For fuck's sake. You think it's that easy? Okay. What exactly are you going to offer me? Hmm? Hamsters or, or, downstairs' cat? It could distract me, buy you a minute to get away, but you don't need that because I'm telling you to go."

"What about artificial blood? Blood bank blood. I've heard it helps. There has to be something we can do."

"There isn't. It's too late for that. Fuck it Rachel. Stop. Get out now."

"No." She stood her ground, shaking from head to foot. "If there's honestly nothing we can do then you'll have to feed. It must be possible to do that without killing. If vampires have been around for thousands of years and kill every time they feed, we'd be extinct by now, so it must be. You must have done it before, so do it now."

"Jesus. You can't trust me. I can't trust myself. The things I'll do to you Rachel... Even if I don't kill you I'll still have… please don't trust me, please."

"You're not killing anyone else today and I'm not going to stand by and let any more poor souls get hurt because of my inaction. I don't want to die Mitchell, so I'll have to trust you. My choice – not yours."

Mitchell stared at her, disbelief and frustration flooding his senses. Her eyes were red and there were exhausted dark circles underneath, but the determination in her was absolute.

He could easily break that determination with one squeeze of his hands.

He dropped to the floor, wrapping his arms tight round his stomach, leaning his back against the sofa and closing his eyes against the need, the chaos, the shards of red that were already starting to pierce his darkness. If he ignored her, maybe he could wrest some control out of what was left of himself. But she had to shut up. He heard her move away and forced his breath to come more regularly. If he regained enough control he could rip the key from her hand and physically force her out of the flat or get past her. But without that control as soon as he touched her he'd…

He could hear her in the kitchen, the noise of drawers and metal, then a tiny cry … ignore her… he pulled himself up and moved closer to the door, another pulse of rage and hunger threaded through him and he ground his shoulder up against the wall, turning his head inwards, as if he could make himself disappear into it, like a ghost.

And then there was the magnetic pull of a heartbeat moving closer to him. The smell. The sweetness. The spice in the metallic edge of iron. The heat. God he was so cold. He would not open his eyes. He wouldn't speak now. He felt the heartbeat move closer still.

It was over. There was blood. He grabbed at the wrist raised towards him. She'd cut her skin and now there was no hope.

 


	6. Blood Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how much blood has been left on hands?

Seth stretched out his legs as best he could while cramped in tight behind a steering wheel, and to add insult to uncomfortable injury he was freezing his bastard bollocks off out here. Why didn't Mitchell just get a sodding move on? On the plus side at least everything had gone to plan so Herrick would be pleased, maybe even pleased enough to allow Seth a proper late night snack this week.

He'd had no trouble following the lawyer to Mitchell's flat yesterday evening and watching as she ran up the stairs, the pretty idiot; women were so predictable. He hadn't hung around outside for long before he heard the cry from behind the grubby first-floor curtains. It had been quickly snuffed out, and no-one else in the street had so much as glanced upwards as they got on with their ordinary little human lives, but, of course, they weren't listening out like he was, waiting for the scream to give him that tingling thrill. Come on, the girl was pretty enough and it didn't take much effort to imagine that she tasted really, really sweet. Going by the distant crashing of furniture that followed a few minutes after, Mitchell thought so too and had helped himself to one hell of a party.

Mitchell got all the best jobs, lucky bastard.

Anyway, that had been hours ago and Mitchell still hadn't phoned for the clean-up squad or stepped out of the door. He wasn't supposed to let on he was here, otherwise he'd have hammered on the door by now, instructing Mitchell to stop dicking about and get the place cleaned up before blood started dripping through the floorboards into the Takeaway downstairs. It had happened before. Twice, to his knowledge.

But instead he'd have to wait it out. Six-twenty on a Saturday morning and waiting for the fucking prodigal golden boy - again.

He let his head fall back on the headrest.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

She looked down at the head resting in her lap as she cradled him on the floor; the strands of hair she stroked away from his face were still wet with sweat and blood. She'd never seen his face completely at rest before and he was beautiful. Her fingers traced over brows and down the strong line from cheek to jaw. They hovered over his lips until she pulled her hand back with a hiss of emotion she couldn't identify. Her fingers returned to stroking his hair without conscious thought, the rhythm was soothing, calming, soft.

The sound of birdsong interrupted the silence. It must be near dawn. A drawn-in breath. A tiniest tilt of his head towards her fingers. She raised her hands and waited.

His eyes opened and for a moment there was peace, but then she watched the panic fly in. He pulled himself up and twisted round in one jerky movement, grabbing her shoulders till she felt the dull burn of another bruise.

"You're here, you're okay?" his voice sounded like a clap of thunder in her head, despite being little more than a croaked whisper.

"I'm here. I'm okay. And so are you."

His eyes started to pull into focus, and she didn't avert her gaze as he looked around at the devastation strewn across the flat. Upturned table and chairs, broken mugs, trashed books, shards of glass covering half the floor.

"You can tidy up this mess, Mitchell, because I'm not," she almost smiled at him.

He stood up with great care and reached down to her until she placed her hands in his and pulled herself upright. How perverse was she to want him to smile and make some stupid remark about mopping the floors? She wanted him to be normal, not frowning at the towel wrapped around her wrist as a visible shudder ran through his body.

"What happened?" his voice as taut as his body.

"How much do you remember?"

"I remember fear and fury and blood and, and lust. Tell me."

"Does it matter?"

"Please."

She steeled herself. "You held my wrist. You sank your fangs into it and you drank. Then you ripped my arm away. You trashed the place. I cowered in that corner behind the bin. Then it went quiet and you slept. I bandaged my arm. Then you woke up. Good morning." That was enough.

She felt a tug on her hands as he guided her towards the sofa. She winced from the pain in her wrist as she sat.

"I'm sorry…" he started to say, but she raised her head to fire a fierce look straight at him.

"You don't say that, not about this. You don't get to say sorry about this. It was my choice, all my choice. Don't ever forget that." She stopped before the words could spill out ' _Leave me this dignity, please, if nothing else, let me have done something, saved just one person.'_

His brows sharpened, matching her directness. ‘What happened?’ he repeated, stroking her unbandaged arm. ‘Tell me. This matters. Please.’

Finally the tears came, stealthily. She couldn't brush them away as he was holding her hands, so she let them wet her cheeks, keeping her eyes fixed between his brows.

"You gripped my wrist so hard. I didn't expect the violence of it. I've never been grabbed like th... Um. So, I cried out. I tried not to but I was frightened by the pain, I suppose, and then you looked right at me and your eyes were shining and pitch black. I've seen that before, but you were so close and so... _angry_ , and so _dead_ , and I wasn't afraid of the pain anymore. You'd gone, and I couldn't see you or reach you anymore. I was frightened of _you_."

His head dropped and Rachel paused, waiting until he breathed, "Go on."

"You twisted my wrist and I cried out harder. You smiled at that and I saw your fangs, like a tiger. I tried to pull away then but you kept smiling, and pushed me back against the wall and held me there with the full weight of your body. I.. um, you licked over my wrist, I think for the pulse, and I tried to force you away, or climb back through the wall, or anything, but it's like you... you... almost laugh. Fight or flight, I don't think it matters, you enjoy both, then my skin rips and everything blurs and hurts beyond anything... and you start to suck and the whole universe becomes the pain, the pull. And you're grinding into me, teeth, tongue, and I can feel you're hard when you start to push against me and...," she paused, her breathing ragged, "... and I'm terrified of you, Mitchell."

"I know. You should be. Hold on to that, Rachel."

"You were gone and I thought I was dead."

"I know."

"So why did you stop?" For a moment Rachel thought he wouldn't answer. "Oh god. No. I'm... I'm still... me...?"

He finally looked up at that.

"I didn't recruit you, I wouldn't do that to you. I honestly don't know how or why I stopped. I wish I did because if I did, maybe I could, I dunno, use that somehow. But I do remember hearing you. Like, like the chime of a bell cutting through the chaos. You leant into me and it was right against my ear and you said 'goodbye, Mitchell'".

"As I said, I thought I was dead."

"Maybe it was simply that. Just a word that told me again who I should be. Maybe I didn't want to say goodbye back."

"I thought I could handle it, that I could handle you as a vampire. But... it was… you…."

"I know."

"But I was right to trust you, more than you trusted yourself. You fought that… that animalistic howling. You found the strength. That's who you are Mitchell. I'm not frightened of the real you. You I trust with my life."

"Jesus, no. Never think that. I'm always the vampire."

She went quiet at this and let the last of her tears fall in silence.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

The bang of a fist on the passenger-door window woke him with a start.

"Oi, Seth. Don't reckon you should be sleeping on the job, man." Marco was hopping from one trainered foot to the other, blowing on his hands.

Seth wound down the passenger window and leant across. "Yeah, well you try hanging around out here for hours waiting for Mitchell. Gets right on my tits. Any news?"

"Nah. So Mitchell got the job done then? Shoulda done it days ago. Next time Herrick should let us handle the loose ends, it'd be a whole lot quicker."

Seth nodded, "Took, what, two hours tops for me to sort out the mess with that Barry guy. No-one even knows he's dead yet. Good result that. Quick, clean. But then Mitchell always did like to play with his food."

Marco shrugged and adjusted the angle of his baseball cap, "Wha'ever. Look man, Herrick says you can give it a rest now the job's done, go get a bit of kip. That's gotta be what Mitchell's doin' right now. It'll be hours before he comes up for air."

"'Bout bloody time," Seth muttered. ‘Quarter to nine. Get in then, I'll give you a ride to the Parlour on the way."

~~~~~~~~~~ 

She looked so fragile as he watched her curled up on the battered old sofa. She was practically buried under the duvet he had dragged in from the bedroom, accompanied by his muffled apologies for not being very good at 'doing launderettes'.

She had stood before him last night, balanced on the edge of a precipice, shivering with fear and looking obliteration straight in the eye. Perhaps he should feel relieved, or even proud that he hadn't torn her to shreds after all, but he didn't.

He felt disorientated.

And fragile.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sound of morning traffic and early shoppers started to reach the flat. Rachel dragged herself up and leant forward for a glass of water balanced on the broken table in front of the sofa. Something urgent sparked at the back of her mind, something she had to work out, but she couldn't quite grasp it while her brain was still whirring in confusion. Instead she took a long drink and looked around. The room was a wreck, the floor covered with broken crockery, glass and furniture - the snarling evidence of Mitchell's rage and violence still surrounding her even now. She couldn't stop her eyes seeking out the blood stains smeared across the wall. Her own blood. She shrank from the sight.

"Hows you feeling?" Mitchell skirted around the sofa and sat on the floor opposite her, clutching a glass of his own. Perhaps he was being careful not to get too close, not to scare her. Ridiculous given the boundaries they'd smashed the night before.

"Groggy. But okay," her voice cracked. She set down the glass, avoiding his gaze. "Actually, can I get freshened up?"

"Yeah, 'course. Just through there. Take anything you need."

Wrapping the duvet around her shoulders she picked her way across to the bathroom. Her face in the mirror made her gasp. She looked ghostly pale with haunted eyes and faint streaks of dried blood across her right cheek. She scrubbed at her face, raking fingers through fiercely tangled hair. She washed and replaced the makeshift bandage on her wrist. The wounds didn't look too bad.

The cold tiles soothed her forehead as she leant against them, rocking gently.

"Rachel? D'you need anything?"

"No. I'm fine." She threw herself a last glance in the mirror. Heavy spatters of blood had dried to nearly black on her pale blue top. ' _Liar'_ , she whispered as she closed the bathroom door behind her.

"Um, Mitchell," he looked up as she took a deep breath. "I know we have to talk about all… all this. But, I just want to go home."

Rachel picked at a thread on the back of the sofa and waited for the argument to begin. He'd already been talking about getting her checked over by a particular doctor at St Jude's, and he'd flatly refused even to respond to her confused request for a taxi home, cocooning her in a duvet instead.

His half-smile reassured her as he unfolded himself and stood up from the floor.

"Sure. I understand - you need to get the blood away from your skin."

She nodded, feeling her body let go of tension in the relief that there was no need to explain any more.

"Then let's get you home, sweetheart," he started to gather up her bag and coat, taking her car keys from the pocket.

"I can drive myself," she started to protest, but the set look on his face stopped her in her tracks.

"You are not going to drive yourself, and you are not going without me. I'm going to see you home, and right now you're gonna accept that. You can yell at me later."

"What if I prefer to yell at you now?"

He put the coat over her shoulders and steered her towards the door, "Waste of time, darlin'. Now where's your car parked?"

~~~~~~~~~~

He didn't know how long he could keep up the pretence that things were fine.

"Hang on," Rachel craned her head round as the car took an unexpected turn. "It's much quicker if you'd gone straight on back there, this won't take us to Redland."

"Ah, Jesus." Mitchell swung the car round to double-back, reversing up a side street in the process. "Can't remember the last time I drove round the posh bits of Bristol. So I should turn left here then?"

He didn't think she'd seen him checking the rear view mirror every other second, or scouring the streets as he parked in front of her house, just in case.

There'd been no one following them, no one was lurking around near her house, but Seth had been stalking her earlier in the week, so he wasn't going to accept that everything was inexplicably ok again. Something vulture-like was circling and it could only be related to the shipment coming in tomorrow.

"Mitchell?" he felt Rachel's hand rest on his for a moment as he sent one last glance down the street. "Come on, at least let me make you a quick coffee."

"Wha'? Don't invite…" he began, but it was already too late.

"Come on in, come on, quick, your hands are frozen."

"… me in," he murmured under his breath as he followed her up the steps and through the front door. "Look Rachel, whoever comes to the door, anyone at all, don't let them in. Not an unexpected delivery, not the nice lady who's broken down and needs to make a phone call, not the new neighbour who's lost cat might be in your garden-"

But his list of what she shouldn't do was interrupted by a sudden "Rachel, darling!" from the bottom of the stairs in front of them.

Mitchell drew in a breath. He hadn't realised Rachel had a sister, but there was no mistaking it. An older sister with the same direct grey-green eyes and long dark lashes. But a sister who was as effortlessly chic as Rachel was not. Hair waving into a smooth bob, sharply high heeled boots under tailored trousers, and red lipstick that lured his eyes.

"Louisa!" Rachel's handbag hit the wooden floorboards with a thud and she ran with arms outstretched. "Louisa, I can't believe you're here. It's wonderful."

Mitchell hovered in the hallway for a while as the women's greetings spilled into the kitchen. He had just started to make his way quietly towards the door to leave unannounced when Rachel ran up to grab his arm.

"No, wait a sec, it's fine, Louisa's family. I have to get showered and changed, but she's insisting that you should have that coffee and no one ever escapes from Louisa when she's set her mind on something, so you must stay for that. I won't be long."

Then she was gone, up the stairs, and leaving behind the warmest smile. He knew he should leave, things were complicated enough as they were, but he didn't.

She was leaning against the kitchen surface, waiting for the coffee machine to warm up, and looked him up and down with a forensic gaze.

"So, you're Mitchell. How long have you known Rachel exactly?"

Impressive, Mitchell smiled to himself, not a woman to waste too much time on small talk, that trait must run in the family. "Not very long, I've been helping out at the Law Centre for a few days."

"She's lovely, isn't she?" Louisa drawled as she moved across the room towards him, swaying slightly.

This time he didn't answer, the question just didn't sound right. Something was off key here, and Mitchell pulled backwards.

From nowhere he felt a hand hard around his neck, forcing him up against the kitchen wall with unexpected fury. In shock, he looked down into pitch-black eyes and fangs extended beneath those beautiful full red lips.

"If you so much as look at my grand-daughter ever again I am going to stake whatever's left of your rancid heart to that kitchen table, you bastard. And just so we are clear, I don't give a fig for any 'King of Blood' rubbish, _John_ , because when that happens all that will be left of your stellar reputation will be a sorry pile of mismatched clothes for me to throw in the bin."

The surge of answering anger drained away the instant the meaning of her words fully hit him. He put his hands on her shoulders and eased her backwards, loosening her hold on his throat.

"She's your grand-daughter? Louisa, I'm not gonna hurt her."

The fury in her visibly mounted.

"You prick! She comes home with you on a morning, white as a sheet, blood all over her and a homemade bandage on her wrist. You know I wasn't born yesterday, _Mr Mitchell_ , you've already hurt her."

"Not the way you think-"

"Exactly the way I think!" she let go with a hoarse cry of rage and her eyes flicked back to a contemptuous grey. "Go on then. Tell me you didn't rip open her flesh and feed from her."

His eyes slid away, "Yeah, but it wasn't … It's never going to happen again, I swear." It sounded hollow, even to him.

"Oh well, that's all right then, especially given your legendary reputation for restraint."

The sound of footsteps rushing down the stairs brought the escalating tirade to a shuddering stop.

"I will end you, Mitchell, don't doubt it," she hissed directly into his face.

They both pulled away as Rachel flew into the room, freshly dressed in jeans and loose top, with hair wet from the shower.

"What's all the shouting for? What's all this about 'restraint'?"

Neither replied.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

Christophe leant back and crossed his long legs with a satisfied sigh. The dark brown leather creaked as he settled in and the charming little hotel receptionist smiled a touch shyly as she handed him the morning newspaper.

"I hope you slept well, sir?" she enquired, how sweet.

"I did, thank you…," he made a show of checking the name tag nestling close to the open shirt neck, "Amy. Very soundly indeed," he beamed a smile up at her. "You are looking after me so well I won't want to check out tomorrow. But on the bright side, today I get to be shown round the sites of Bristol by an expert."

"That's lovely. Enjoy your day in Bristol, sir." Christophe wasn't surprised by the tentative look she sent over her shoulder as she walked back towards the desk. Yes, she was very sweet.

"Lovely girl." A voice drifted from behind the sofa.

Christophe stood and put out his hand in greeting, "Good morning, Herrick. Take a seat for a moment. I can recommend the breakfast if you haven't eaten."

"No, no," Herrick demurred, taking the seat opposite.

Christophe looked around at the vaulted ceilings, whitewashed walls, expanses of polished wood and comfortable sofas. "You know I remember this place when it was warehouses. Sugar warehouses I think, with cellars so convenient for the waterfront and for moving people in and out. Who would have thought a place like that would scrub up so well. You'd think the walls would whisper their secrets to the guests as they sleep in their luxury beds, but it seems not."

"Not everything is lost to the past." Herrick edged forward on the sofa. "In fact, I have an invitation for you. We can tie up all the signing-off arrangements with police and customs within a few hours and then relax in old-Bristolian style."

Christophe repressed a laugh prompted by Herrick's over-dramatic pause, but was too intrigued to refuse the bait. "I'm intrigued, tell me more."

"Let's just say I own a property worthy of a visit. We are told the cellars beneath Clifton houses were used by filthy-rich merchants to store their goods, never to shackle slaves from the trade routes. Of course that may technically be true, but then we know better stories. Would you care to visit tonight? Maybe rediscover a bit of history? Refreshments provided."

Christophe hadn't realised how much Herrick wanted to impress. While he was vain enough to believe that the invitation was purely for his benefit, he suspected that it was part of a longer-term game. It usually was with Herrick.

"Well, you have me hooked, Herrick. I will be there."

"Excellent. So to business." Herrick stood and waited for Christophe to gather up a long grey coat and leather holdall, running through the details methodically. "The final clearance meeting with Customs and Excise is at Royal Portbury Dock. Mitchell says the contact seems pretty solid, but is not a fool so it's crucial to put the upfront half of the payment in his hands and on time."

Christophe found his attention wavering as he nodded a goodbye towards sweet little Amy on their way out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rachel looked from one vampire to the other. "You know each other?"

Mitchell shook his head.

"Only by reputation," Louisa replied, "something I'd like to describe to you because I think you'll find it fascinating under the circumstances. You sounded frightened when you phoned me, and I need to make sure you're safe."

"I know, I know. Mitchell's already making me promise to turn myself into a hermit."

"He's right," Louisa threw a foul look in Mitchell's direction. "Of course you shouldn't be letting strangers like him across the threshold."

Rachel laughed out loud at the anachronism. "Creepy. Anyway, don't lecture me about security, Louisa, tell him. He's the one who thinks leaving a spare key above the front door is a good idea."

"Excuse me?" Mitchell felt a coldness inch down his spine as something started to shift uncomfortably in his mind. The vulture, he could almost see it circling. "You found a key above my door and that's how you let yourself in? Why did you think…?"

"Your text, obviously."

He shook his head again, his voice dropping lower. "I don't have your number, I've never sent you a text." He stole a glance across towards Louisa and saw her stiffen as a layer of unease settled over the kitchen. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone, handing it over to Rachel. "Take a look."

Rachel scrolled through the messages and found nothing. She looked up into Mitchell's face, her frown matched by his. "You said something like that last night too, didn't you? You didn't know what I was talking about. Hold on a minute."

She rushed to retrieve her bag from the hall, still rummaging through it as she sat down at the kitchen table and gestured the others to join her. Mitchell felt Louisa's stare burn into him as he read the text message Rachel held out towards him. He stared at the screen for what seemed like an age.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I must have screwed up, you know I was drowning in hunger yesterday, mad with it. When it's like that the world becomes a haze, I forget things. I must have forgotten that I'd sent you a message, and was so out of it when you arrived. Look, we'll make a deal, you don't let anyone in and I'll find a better place to keep my spare key, huh?"

Mitchell could see the wariness in Rachel, she didn't quite believe him, but she trusted him too much to dismiss him and couldn't make enough sense of it to challenge him. He reached across and squeezed her hand. "You need time to talk to Louisa, so I'll leave you to it for a bit. I'll come back later, we still have things to sort out."

Without giving Rachel a chance to object he moved quickly towards the door, tilting his head to direct Louisa to follow him.

She caught up with him in the hallway.

"That was a load of crap. You deliberately lured Rachel to you and she's too trusting to see it."

Mitchell leant downwards as if to kiss her cheek in farewell. "I don't give a shit what you think you know. Just don't let her out of your sight."

As the door shut behind him he stood for a moment and stared across the town laid out before him. As ever, there was only one place left to go - to find Herrick.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rachel hadn't moved; her stare fixed on the phone. Louisa pulled a chair closer and put an arm around her shoulders.

"Darling, you have no idea what you're playing with here. I can understand the allure, you know, and I understand that the excitement can lead you into exploring-"

"Christ almighty Louisa!" Rachel held out her bandaged wrist. "You think I'm fucking Mitchell and this is from some kind of sex game?"

"Anyone can see how you fool yourself into trusting him. You won't be the first, my love, and you need to know that however normal and in control he might seem, that's a facade. He's spent decades playing these games with his victims, and he's good at them. In fact he's cultivated one hell of a reputation for the carnality of his-"

"Stop. I stumbled into hell by accident. He was like a desperate caged animal, ravenous."

"Oh, I see. You want to save him even more than you want to fuck him then?" Rachel winced, and Louisa tried to smooth the anger out of her voice. "Sweetie, the graveyards are littered with silly girls who thought they were different, special, that they could save a vampire from themselves."

"You're not listening to what I'm saying. I was standing on the edge of hell. I had seconds to decide whether to let him leave and kill, or do whatever I could to stop him somehow."

"You must know that offering yourself is not stopping him, staking him is stopping him."

"What! He's one of your own, you can't mean that."

"Oh I do, believe me, I do. Darling, what happens next time he arrives on your doorstep shaking and desperate? How many times do you hold out your wrist or bare your neck. Be honest, how long before you really do take him to bed? A week? A day? That's not stopping him. That's feeding him. And one day very soon that iron control you think you can trust won't hold any longer. He'll say he needs you, he might even say he loves you, right up to the moment he can't help but devour you. No doubt he'll be heartbroken. But before long you are just another silly girl he put in the graveyard."

Rachel turned in her chair to look at her grandmother, reading the undercurrent.

"Tell me what you're trying to say."

Louisa didn't hesitate. "We thought we'd be different, your grandfather and I. We had each other, we had Miles. Your father was still a baby and we thought we could find a way to live together, a human and a newly-made vampire. I was a good person, I could find a way not to kill. Robert was a good person. He would find a way to help me, feed me just enough. We loved each other, right up to the night I killed him in our bed, taking pleasure in it."

For a moment Rachel couldn’t even speak. She heard Mitchell’s hiss and hard laugh sound again in her ears. There were no more words.

"Louisa, no, I’m so sorry."

"So am I, sixty years later, so am I. It's easy enough to say it now, but he should have staked me, not fed me, not enabled what I am. He should have been the one to live."

She didn’t realise she’d pulled her hands back, away from Louisa’s reach. It was like she was suddenly drowning in blood and there was nothing left to hold on to anymore. Nothing except the need to make it stop. It burned in her brain – make it stop.

"I'm really so sorry. But this isn't the same. I'm not trying to save Mitchell, it's about the others, the victims he didn't take last night. He gets it, even though he thinks I'm wrong, but that's just his muddled logic."

"Oh my love, that kind of trade-off sounds more like a game of Russian roulette or a death wish to me. I'll only say this once in my life, but Mitchell's right. Why cast yourself in that role?"

"Believe me I didn't choose it. But I can't stand by and have more blood on my hands."

"More blood? Miles has driven himself half mad protecting you from all this, what blood are you talking about?"

A surge of energy lifted Rachel from her seat. "You're right it has to stop. I've been looking the other way and people are being sold and murdered and we're part of that whole machine. Not this time. I can still make it stop - I have to go to the police."

~~~~~~~~~~

The road looked exactly the same as it always did. Nothing changes. Tidy front lawns with an occasional toy scooter abandoned on its side. Magnolia-painted houses lined up ready for inspection. Mitchell paid no attention to the teenage girls sitting nonchalantly on the low garden wall, one daring the other to whistle at him as he walked past.

He stopped at the front door, dropping his cigarette end to the ground and grinding it under his boot for a very long time, shoulders hunched. His arm was heavy as he raised it to knock.

"Mitchell! In you come then. The Neighbourhood Watch will be on red alert if they see someone like you lurking around the houses for too long."

Herrick led the way into the living room with a small bounce in his stride, throwing an unnervingly bright smile in Mitchell's direction.

"Nice to see you my boy, it was a pleasant surprise to get your call. We had a good meeting at the docks this morning, thank you for arranging all that so efficiently. Christophe and I are planning a small celebration at my Clifton house, come and join us. You should bring a guest, if you see what I mean."

Without waiting to be asked Mitchell sat on the neat grey sofa, leaning his head back and turning it to fix his look on Herrick.

"Rachel Chadwick." It was all he said.

Herrick stopped and raised his eyebrows before leaning forward as if suddenly understanding.

"Ahhh. A riddle. Well I can just about tell you've had a snack recently and it certainly seems sweet enough to have been the fragrant Rachel, but surely you haven't resorted to munching your way through your co-workers quite so quickly."

"I think you can guess."

"Honestly, Mitchell. I give you a simple administrative task and now I'm going to have to explain how the daughter of one of the most useful vampire-sympathisers in Bristol has been in an accident."

Mitchell did not smile back in response. "Why didn't you just kill her yourself?"

"I beg your pardon? Why would you ask that?"

"She was the weak link. The one most likely not go along with all of this. You did your Risk Impact Survey and decided she was at the top of your To Do list. I see that. So why didn't you kill her yourself, huh? I'm guessing because it's much easier to explain away a blood-drunk fuck gone wrong with me than a cold-blooded assassination by you. Easier for Christophe and the hierarchy to let you off the hook on that one. They'll understand. It's me, after all."

Herrick put away the grin and gave a sharp nod. Sitting down opposite he became unnaturally still, regarding Mitchell with caution for once."

"I was half hoping you'd deny it," Mitchell said.

"Collateral damage old son. You know how these things are, sometimes it is necessary to take a more strategic approach."

"So is it her or me that's the collateral damage? Both of us, perhaps. Never mind, better to reign in hell than serve in heaven, I suppose."

"Now what would you mean by that? Heaven and hell, Mitchell. How very old school of you. That's not your usual style."

"You really don't get it, do you? It's not about whether she needed to be taken out of the picture, I've been around long enough to know you'll take whatever steps necessary, especially when the big boys are relying on you. I understand that, Herrick. I do."

"Good. So what precisely is it that I don't get?"

"You fucking used me. You set me up, turned me into your weapon, and pulled fucking the trigger."

"Really? And how did I manage to do that?"

"Because you know my weaknesses. Christ knows you've cultivated them for long enough. Take one pretty girl, throw us together, get me high on blood, send her round, job done. Come on, it's not rocket science, is it. You never needed me to check those files at the Law Centre, that was just your little way of getting the ball rolling. Then you use Seth to put a bit of extra pressure on, subtle as ever-"

"Well, you always had a penchant for playing the good guy. You know, the chivalrous arm round her shoulder, 'it'll be fine, I'll protect you'. Always worked remarkably well for you that line. I never quite understood why they just keep falling for it."

Mitchell ignored the determined cheerfulness in his old friend's voice. "I couldn't quite work it out, not until I saw the text message on her phone. It was from my number - sent while I was having that little drink with you and Christophe at the Parlour. No wonder Nana was so fuckin' determined to take my jacket. With my phone in the pocket, obviously. You knew what I'd be like after the blood. The poor kid didn't stand a chance and you sent her to my door and put the key in her hand. Very neat."

"I admit I thought so too. But Mitchell, remember you are the one who finished the job. I think you mistake me. I do not see your weakness, I see your strength going to waste. I want you back by my side - properly back, a force to be reckoned with again. There's so much I want to do and having you with me will make it so much more... fun! Tell me it didn't feel good - to feel the power, to revel in it, finally to satisfy your desires again. You've been sleepwalking these past months, shutting yourself away in that horrible little flat and keeping away from the rest of us when there's a hunt to be had. Even letting lovely blonde pick-ups go the morning after..."

Mitchell looked up sharply at that.

"... oh yes, so sorry, I neglected to say. The sad blonde with the long legs from the bar last weekend? Imagine my surprise when it turns out she is not littering up the River Avon after all, but is instead walking through the corridor at my police station bold as brass and definitely still breathing. It appears the luscious Jennifer is unlucky enough to work for the Crown Prosecution Service and even unluckier to have had a meeting with my superior officer this week. Or maybe I should say worked. Past tense now, I'm afraid. So it seems I'm not the only man in this room who's been a touch economical with the truth recently."

"Economical, maybe, but I don't use you. It's weird, Herrick, through everything I still held on to this belief that I could sort of trust you. No-one else in the world would say that, but after all we've been through together there was still something holding me here that …"

Mitchell stopped and stood. His hands slipped into his jacket pockets and his shoulders straightened. A wave of weariness washed over his face. A single shake of his head and he started to walk to the door.

"It doesn't matter anymore. It's done. I'm done."

A look of barely suppressed concern flicked across Herrick's eyes. "If I knew what you meant I'd tell you not to be so melodramatic," he blustered.

Mitchell didn't turn his head. "See you round Herrick. I'll see myself out."

He closed the front door quietly, leaning his arms against it for a second with his dark head bowed. Then he turned swiftly and lengthened his stride as he headed down the pavement to where his car was parked. He didn't even hear the redheaded girl as she managed a half-hearted wolf-whistle closely followed by a loud giggle. He snapped his phone open and found the number he needed.

"Miles. It's Mitchell. Don't hang up on me this is urgent. I need to see you straight away. I need your help."

-

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to solarlotus for the laughs, and for keeping me on track.


	7. Avonmouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the docks - and an old acquaintance

Avonmouth was a grim place to be on a cold autumn evening. The sickly lights of the truck stop flickered yellow as dusk began to fall. Sitting squat on a side road heading towards the docks, the corrugated iron shed of a café was the warmest and most inviting place visible in any direction.

He pulled in the Volvo a little way back from the half-dozen trucks already parked up for the night and sat back in the sooty gloom to wait. It was easy enough to watch the drivers as they hauled themselves out of the cabins and walked stiffly towards the café, helpfully spot-lit by the lights from the handful of tables inside. It was not the most glamorous of hunting grounds, but that didn't stop the inevitable thrill running through Mitchell – the heady anticipation of the chase. It was so easy and familiar and, despite the cold and the cracked leather of the car seat digging into his back, his limbs relaxed. This wasn't the frenzy of being trapped and caged with Rachel, wrecked by a blood-lust that would tear apart everything in its path, wild and out of control. 

This was the old game and he was the fucking Grandmaster. Disposing of some fucking shits was nothing less than a social service. The West Country should thank him. Herrick had been right - he'd been sleepwalking for months.

It was less than an hour before the truck pulled in close to the car. A short, strongly-built driver lowered himself to the ground and stretched out his shoulders and arms before heading to the café. A body builder, Mitchell grinned, they were always fun.

After giving the driver long enough to order whatever greasy-spoon food he needed, Mitchell followed him into the cafe. A murmur swept round the tables until a woman driver shouted over. "You're in the wrong place luvvie, bloody bikers don't hang out here, but I've got plenty of room in my cab for you. I’ll keep you safe."

The whistles and filthy jokes that followed dispelled any tension, and Mitchell joined in with a good-natured shrug as he collected a mug of tea from the counter and went to sit opposite his target.

"Uh, do I know you?" The driver asked casually as he tucked into a surprisingly fresh-looking steak and salad.

"Sort of, you're Jimmy."

"Yeah." Jimmy bristled. "And what’s it to you?"

"Well, if you _are_ Jimmy, I've got half your wages waiting for you in my car," Mitchell said, keeping his voice low, making a show of the subterfuge.

It worked like a charm. Jimmy dropped the attitude and leant forward, drawn into Mitchell’s space. "But I thought I'd be paid afterwards, the Bristol guy told me that," Jimmy whispered back.

"Bristol guy? Mitchell, you mean?"

"Yeah. Him.”

"Oh come on, man, you’ve gotta recognise the accent. Pleased to meet you anyways, Jimmy. Look, it was a mistake, everyone else is getting paid half upfront so it's only fair you do too, mate. You should bite my hand off, me coming down to find you on such a shit-awful night."

The scowl left Jimmy's face.

 "Fuck yeah. Sorry, Mitchell. Thanks. Let me finish this and we'll get it sorted, right?"

Mitchell assessed Jimmy as the driver rushed to pack away his dinner as quickly as he could, the offer of money usually had that effect. He was surprisingly young to have been trusted with the shipment, not more than in his early twenties at a guess.

"How much do you know about what's going down here?" Mitchell asked.

"Absolutely bloody nothing, mate. I don't ask, don't tell, believe me. The Boss can be fuck-scary and I need to keep my nose clean. It's not like there's another gig out there, y'know and the last thing I want to do is fuck up. Especially with him, man. Don’t want the missus to have to explain to my kid why I got my face sliced up, y’know. But a drive's a drive. I'll just settle up with Chrissie and then we’ll go."

The walk back towards the Volvo was brisk and silent with Jimmy keeping half a pace behind. Mitchell knew the car was tucked beside a truck and well-nigh invisible in the gloom, there was no danger of it being picked up on the security camera, and as soon as they were shielded from the café by the side of the truck he stopped and turned.

"I lied, Jimmy," his voice conversational, "there's no money. There's just this-"

A hand snaked around Jimmy's neck, lifting him until his feet struggled to keep contact with the earth. Mitchell pushed backwards, forcing the driver's head back against the door of the truck with a sick thud.

"You know what this is, don't you?" His eyes scorched pitch black, obliterating the human mask, the fangs distended and he pulled his lips back into an animalistic hiss.

Mitchell felt Jimmy's heartbeat lurch, his head shake in terror, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands stayed stiff by his side.

"I'm going to tell you what happens next. You are going to give me the keys to the truck. Then you are going to run. You are going to run and hide and stay hidden. Because if you don't, I will fucking find you and fucking rip your head off, that is if your boss doesn't do it first. Am I making myself _very_ clear?"

Jimmy nodded frenetically, his face a rictus of fear.

Mitchell forced his own face closer and breathed slowly into Jimmy’s face.

"Open your eyes, Jimmy."

The heartbeat raced impossibly fast as Jimmy squeezed his eyes tighter, flinching away from Mitchell’s voice.

"Open them, or I'll fucking do it for you!"

Jimmy did as instructed and Mitchell looked into eyes washed with sheer terror and saw blackness reflected back at him. He took a sharp step back and retracted the fangs, his next step hanging in the balance for a long second before blinking his eyes back to human with a slow beat.

"Well done. Don't underestimate me, Jimmy,” his voice level and calm. "One mistake and I will kill you. Keys, if you please."

Jimmy managed to drag them from his jacket pocket and Mitchell took them before they dropped through violently trembling fingers.

"Thank you. Now – run!”

As soon as the hand around his neck released him, Jimmy let out a choked cry and pushed past Mitchell, running jaggedly away from the warmth of the cafe towards the blinking lights on the horizon.

Mitchell swung himself round and leant his back against the truck, his breath coming in painful heaving gasps. He banged his head backwards - hard - once, twice, three times, with his own eyes now squeezed shut.

It was some minutes before he was steady enough to walk over to his car and ease himself behind the wheel. Pulling out his phone his hands were shaking so hard it was difficult to punch the number.

"Miles. It's done. Get your man down here as fast as you can. I need to get back to Rachel."

~~~~~~~~~~

Louisa rubbed her hands across her face. She was exhausted. Talking Rachel out of going straight to the police had taken hours. In the end, the only thing that got through the stubborn head of hers was that going to any police would ultimately mean tipping off Herrick. Rachel had reluctantly conceded that it would be pointless and suicidal, and put everyone in the container ship in even more danger, but she was still circling the house trying to find another solution.

"I should ask Mitchell. He isn't part of this, he'll help."

The coffee mugs shook under the force of it as Louisa slapped her hands down on the table in frustration.

"Mitchell! Mitchell is Herrick's propaganda poster, of course he knows. Rachel, think. He's been playing this game since The Great War. How much is left that you think he hasn't done? Revelled in? I'll make a little bet with you. When he comes back, you ask him how many times he's been to parties and clubs and brothels where the entertainment has been shipped in for his pleasure. But I think you already know what the answer would be."

Rachel stopped pacing, only to fold her arms in defiance. "And you've been playing this game since the Second World War. Perhaps you would like to answer that question yourself, Louisa."

"Ever the lawyer. Just leave things be. It's been happening for thousands of years in one way or another. You don't have to be part of it ever again. You should leave Bristol, cut ties with all this and find a different life. And the answer is yes, I know such things."

"Being the consumer isn't the same though, is it?" Rachel pleaded. "Knowing it happens isn't the same as being part of the disgusting machine behind it."

"You don’t really believe that, but right now the only thing that concerns me is you. I love you. You and Miles are all that's left. Miles has spent his life keeping me safe, and now I'm going to keep you safe. You are coming with me, just for the short-term. You can stay with some human friends and, when you are ready, you can head off to make a new life of your own."

Rachel finally fell silent. “Thank God”, Louisa murmured under her breath. All she had to do now was persuade Rachel to leave. "You stay here. I'll go and pack a bag for you."

As soon as Louisa disappeared up the stairs Rachel rushed to the living room at the front of the house and switched on the computer, willing it to speed up as it whirred into life.

“Come on, come on, hurry up…”

Minutes later she had the contact details for the Bristol Post. If she couldn't report a crime, she could still blow the whistle, and there was no need to mention vampires to get attention, because a cargo of illegal immigrants arriving in the city would get the Post’s journalists nicely hot under the collar. The docks would be swarming with press and photographers by the morning. At the very least that would frighten the vampires away.

Before she could reach for the phone, the front doorbell sounded. Rachel edged round to the front window and could just see a glimpse of a tall blond man in a striking grey suit with a long heavy coat draped over his arm. When there was no response to the ring he took a step back and raised his voice. "Rachel? Are you there? I have a message for you from Miles."

Mitchell’s warning had sounded stupid this morning, but with darkness falling and a stranger on the doorstep, his voice rang in her ears. The chances of the visitor being a vampire suddenly seemed very high indeed, but what if something had happened to her father, what if he was in trouble too?

Rachel took her time getting to the door. As long as she didn't invite him in, she'd be perfectly okay, she told herself, angling her body so she stepped back quickly as she opened it, determined to remain well out of reach.

"Hello. You say you have a message for me?"

"Rachel. You are here. It was a long-shot, but I so wanted to see you while I'm visiting Bristol." The man stopped suddenly and looked beyond Rachel to the stairs behind her.

"It cannot be," he breathed.

Louisa took a few more steps down the stairs, transfixed.

"Christophe, my God."

Rachel edged back towards Louisa, her voice drenched in panic.

"I don't know what to do, tell me what to do."

"Don't let him in." Louisa half-choked, not taking her eyes from the man in the doorway.

"Oh Louisa, I'm so sorry but it's fifteen years too late for that."

And he stepped inside, wrenching the door from Rachel's hand and slamming it shut behind him.

 

"You don't remember me, Rachel? That hurts."

Christophe's smile snaked across the hallway as Rachel backed away. Louisa grabbed her hand and pulled her in close.

"Our world doesn't revolve around you, however hard that is for you to believe," Louisa said, her voice diamond-hard.

"You didn't say that when you came running back to me, leaving your marital bed still drenched with the blood of that anaemic husband of yours. Ach. I can't even remember his name anymore."

"It's been a long time, Christophe, why have you come to find me now?"

"I've missed you, chérie. The East End is too quiet without you. Your lovely offspring here might not realise, but you have considerable gifts and I always enjoy nurturing talent. Though if I'm scrupulously honest, I came to Bristol to see Rachel. Finding you here is just a delightful surprise. Do we really have to stand in the hallway? Can't we be a little more civilised?"

Turning his eyes away from the women he walked purposefully into the front room, the click of his polished brogues on the floorboards took ownership of the silent house. He didn’t need to find his bearings, walking straight to an oversized leather armchair and draping his coat over the back.

For a moment he was perfectly framed against the large bay window.

"Of course." Rachel stood fixed in the doorway as she took in his elegance, short dark-blond hair and pale, pale skin. But it was the eyes. Grey eyes that seemed to go on forever, eyes that looked straight into her, eyes that had seen everything in the world.

She remembered. Christophe smile was triumphant.

"Good. That makes me feel much better. I would hate to have gone unremembered. And do you still play poker, my dear? You too have talent, I saw it all those years ago, but of course it's a talent that needs maturity to blossom."

"No. I don't play poker any these days. At least not with cards."

His eyes focused in on her more keenly. "Ah, you play the game in other ways then. You like to take a risk and see how the cards fall?"

"I never had to. I was kept away from it all, but things have changed now and yes, I've discovered that sometimes it's worth taking a risk."

Christophe stepped forwards and Rachel mirrored the movement.

"And taking a risk excites you, doesn't it? Clearly that's a trait that runs in the female line of the family."

Before she could reply, Louisa stepped between them.

"The conversation ends here, Christophe. You should leave."

"Leave?" A derisive laugh escaped his lips. "Why would I want to do that when there are so many delicious possibilities right here in this room? Let's open a bottle and sit down, shall we?"

"Out of the question. Get out of here, Rachel."

"Spoilsport. Rachel is going nowhere and you know that."

"Scared I'm going to spoil your plans, Christophe? I let you take me, and then I let you control me for decades, so I know you and I know all your games. Leave. Now."

"I didn't control you, Louisa, that's a convenient lie you tell yourself when your conscience starts to prick a little too painfully. You thrived under my care, and I can do the same for your grand-daughter."

Rachel understood in an instant: if Christophe couldn't have Louisa anymore, he was intending to start again - with her. He'd been waiting fifteen years for the chance. Tearing herself from the near-hypnotic state she had drifted into she forced her mind back to the night before. She saw Mitchell before her, his beautiful face a terrifying distortion of itself, eyes empty of everything except darkness and endless hunger, his body and mind become animal. She held on to the shudder of fear and pity the memory evoked. Regardless of any seduction he was going to try, she knew that this is what Christophe was intending for her too. He couldn’t fool her.

Christophe stepped past Louisa and drew Rachel's hand into his, turning her palm upward and stroking it with his other hand.

"This is interesting." He mused. "How did you come by the bandage?"

For a second Rachel considered lying, before deciding not to try her luck.  "Mitchell. Um. He and I got a little ..."

"A little carried away?" He finished, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "It seems I waited too long before I came to visit. Mitchell is it? That's an interesting development. Well, he's wasted down here as Herrick's errand boy. I think he'll fit into the London team very well. He takes a bit of handling, but that will make it so much more fun. The more I think about it the more I think this will all work out perfectly."

Rachel stepped back and forced a wan smile. "Louisa, I think Christophe is right about having a drink. Why not?"

Louisa didn’t disguise her disbelief. "What? I don't think you understand..."

"A few days ago you would have been right, grandmother, but not now. There's no reason we can't have a conversation."

Louisa leant close to her ear. ''You think he's going to give you a choice?" She hissed. "You have to run."

Rachel brushed her away. "Don't worry so much, we're only talking. The wine is in the kitchen. There's a cupboard out the back and I keep the bottles in there, in the basket. Have a look, there might be something good enough for Christophe's taste."

Louisa fought the urge to argue, at least a bottle of wine would slow everything down and give her a chance to think of something. The old pantry off the kitchen was cold as she flicked on the light switch and stepped inside. A few bottles of white wine were balanced on a shelf at the back, and Louisa looked down for a basket. The only basket was full of gardening bits and pieces, not wine, so why had Rachel mentioned that? She dropped to her knees and pulled out the mix of trowels and filthy gloves until she found a selection of short and thick wooden sticks at the bottom, presumably used to hold things in place in the garden. She chose the sharpest, it wasn't perfect, but it might just do. Tucking the makeshift stake into the band of her trousers and pulling her shirt over the top, she picked up the closest bottle of wine.

As she put the opened bottle on a tray with three glasses she felt a surge of power rush through her. This time, Christophe was not in control.

Rachel and Christophe sat side by side on the sofa as the tray was laid on the table in front of them.

"Christophe has been explaining how he could do with a lawyer in London", Rachel said. "Maybe I could do that, help keep things secret the way Dad has been helping you for all these years.”

Christophe took her chin in his hand and turned her face to look directly at him. "Not as a human, Rachel. That part of the arrangement is non-negotiable."

Rachel looked up at Louisa and saw the briefest of nods.

"I want Mitchell, you know I do," Rachel stood and moved away towards the door, "but this is a big step. Let me at least talk to him first."

Anger flashed across Christophe's face, finally cracking the façade. "It's not about Mitchell! It won't take long for that fucking Irish peasant to be the last man on your mind."

He stood and followed her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he smiled down into her face.

"Tell your grandmother to stay away, she knows how much I can hurt her. Now this will hurt, until the pain bleeds into pleasure - but of course you know about that delicious trick already." He shifted one hand to hold the back of her head hard. "It's very promising to see you are even easier than the beloved Louisa."

"No, Christophe!" Louisa screamed theatrically and threw herself at him.

Christophe half-turned and caught her left arm with his free hand and twisted it sharply.

"Don't be so silly, Louisa, you'll be there to greet her on the other side. What a life she's going to have with me."

With that, fangs erupted and he took his time lowering his head to Rachel's throat, relishing the heated heartbeat and frantic rush of blood just beneath his mouth.

He wasn't paying any attention to Louisa now he held her firmly, so he didn't feel her reach round with her right arm to grab the nearly-stake. He didn't realise what it meant when she pulled herself up as straight as she could while pinned by his hand. He certainly didn't pay any attention when she hissed, “my husband’s name was Robert.” By the time he heard her grunt of exertion it was too late and the weapon slid up past his ribs and straight into his heart.

Rachel looked back into eyes crazed with shock. An other-worldly sound filled her ears, like a distant cracking of the spheres, and then Christophe was gone.


	8. The Long Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long is the way, and hard,  
> that out of hell leads up to light
> 
> (John Milton)

 

Mitchell climbed the steps to the front door and rang the doorbell all the while running words in his head, trying to find the right way to explain. Only Louisa and Miles knew Rachel was still alive for now, but they needed to get her out of the area as soon as possible. He doubted he could be persuasive enough. Jaysus, but the girl was stubborn. Maybe Louisa would drop her holier-than-thou attitude and back him up.

It took an age for the door to open. Louisa stood back to let him in with hands planted on her hips.

"Personally, I'd let you rot on the doorstep, but Rachel needs you."

"You look rough." Mitchell threw back over his shoulder in retaliation.

As soon as he walked into the front room, he knew. The long coat draped over the chair and the heavy air in the room told him half the story. The immaculate grey suit pushed to the side of the room told him the rest.

Rachel was on the sofa, folded in on herself. He sat next to her and waited until he felt her move and curl into him, her head finding the curve of his shoulder. He enclosed her in his arms without a word and waited.

~~~~

"Here, drink this you two." Mitchell looked up to see Louisa put two mugs of tea down in front of them. "Solves everything you know."

"How long has it been?" he whispered, unconsciously stroking Rachel's shoulder as she stirred next to him and pulled in closer.

"She’s been like that for nearly an hour now. Talking a little, but mostly sitting, I'll leave you."

"No. I think you should stay. How are you?"

"Me?" Louisa responded with surprise at his interest. "Shaken, to be honest. We have a long and tortuous history, Christophe and I. After being in thrall to him for all these years, I never thought I'd be the one to end him. He was my maker."

"I didn't know that. It gets bloody complicated, doesn't it?"

"You can say that again! But he was going to recruit Rachel. Some things are unforgivable."

"Blood is thicker than water, huh."

Despite herself, Louisa smiled. "Of course. And she is my family. Always. Do you have family?"

"Nah. At least, no-one close any more. I never went back.”

“To Ireland? That would be after the war? Why not? It would have been easier.”

“Not really. Fighting in the Great War didn’t bring much respect at home afterwards, and anyway, I'd have been branded a deserter and that gave me the excuse to stay away. I said it was for my family’s honour, but deep down I reckon it was fear that kept me away.”

“Of what?”

“Fear of what I’d be capable of, even around those I loved. Maybe especially around them.”

Louisa went pale at that. "I think you were more clear-sighted than I was. They would have had a better life if I hadn't dragged them into this. So Herrick became your family."

Mitchell didn't answer, the betrayal still burned. "Like I said, it's bloody complicated."

He eased himself upright, and helped Rachel as she unfolded herself from the warmth of his side.

"Rachel, I’m sorry. I got it wrong. I thought Miles was in it for the money, that he'd sold himself for a handful of vampire silver and taken you down with him. I should’ve listened to you better in Sandrino's place. It was always about love, wasn't it?"

She nodded. "I hated you when you said that about him. But you weren’t really wrong. Whatever the motive, we still help bury the bones. What happens now?"

Mitchell had thought of little else since he'd arrived.

"Christophe was head of this operation and we can’t just let it all collapse. If it does things will run way out of control.”

“Let it.” Rachel was unimpressed.

“Not like this. It’s too dangerous for all of us. Herrick is expecting Christophe tonight and when he doesn't turn up things will get messy. And you've been noticed, we have to keep you safe.”

“Listen to him, Rachel. Please.” Louisa could see a battle looming.

“So. Louisa, you come with me to meet with Herrick, Rachel you stay put, just for now. Lock yourself in your wardrobe if you get tempted to open the door again."

A spark of fight returned to Rachel's eyes at that remark. "No sodding way am I staying here while you two are off making things worse.”

Mitchell decided there was nothing but the truth left.

"Herrick didn’t tell me about the trafficking upfront because he was using me, but there’s someone else coming in. I know something he doesn’t, and that’s our leverage. But to make it work you have to stay out of the picture because… look, Rachel, he thinks I killed you. That was his grand plan from the start. So if you show up at his house, obviously we are not going to get away with this. We won't be long, but it has to be done."

~~~~

Herrick could barely conceal his surprise and delight when he opened the grand door to his even grander - and very secret - townhouse to see Mitchell and an unexpected woman on his doorstep. Mitchell could tell exactly what was going through his old comrade's head.

"Let the good times roll, Herrick." Mitchell said.

"So you couldn't stay away after all, my boy? I thought the taste for the good life would prove irresistible after last night. I am delighted. Come on in."

Herrick beamed, evidently pleased with his ultimate victory over his protegé's earlier idiotic attitude. He'd won. He’d known Mitchell could never function without him, and Herrick felt the pleasant surge of control as he fussed around Louisa.

"Actually we won't be staying. We've come to talk business - and by the way, Louisa is definitely not on the menu." A chill had crept into Mitchell's smile.

"Business? No, not tonight, my friends. That can keep until tomorrow."

Louisa fixed Herrick with a disconcerting look. "Christophe isn't coming. He took a wrong turning and now he's dead. Vampire politics is so very messy, don’t you think? And so unfortunate for you as it happened when all eyes are on Bristol and whether you can handle a job on this scale. But luckily we have a proposal for you."

Herrick's cheerfulness switched off in an instant and his blue eyes turned razor-sharp.

"This had better be good," he said through clenched jaw.

Mitchell perched himself on the edge of a grand table and folded his arms. "It'll all be

"It'll all be fine, if you take Christophe's place chaperoning the special delivery to London and on to Prague. You know about that, don't you?"

"Actually no. Christophe was cautious, and on a need-to-know basis, I didn’t need, so I expected nothing more."

"Well, thanks to you I got to check all the boring paperwork, remember. How many 10 year-old Old Ones do you know in need of an escort to get through all that airport security without too many questions asked."

"Hetty! You're sure?"

"Oh yes. And we’re lucky it is. She'll be pleased to see you, her dearest old recruit. She might even be pleased enough to overlook the whole Christophe cock-up happening on your watch. It also gets you safely out of the country for a little while. In fact I think you'll enjoy it."

"And what happens here in this plan of yours?"

"Nothing much. Everything else is in place. The container comes straight off the boat and onto the truck, that's all sorted already. Christophe's driver heads off to London with the cargo, no sweat. I just have to make sure Seth and crew don't screw it up by drawing attention to themselves when things are so … delicate … for us. We all keep our heads down and eventually everyone congratulates you on a good job, and how it was such a pity Christophe nearly fucked it up for you."

Herrick stared at Mitchell for a long moment. Mitchell resisted the urge to fidget.

"So. Louisa. You are part of the vampire politics that got so messy for Christophe?" Herrick asked.

"Yes. But none of us want Hetty to be inconvenienced by our petty differences, now do we. What a wasted opportunity that would be." She replied.

Mitchell smiled to himself. She'd got him. Herrick was hooked in.

"I don't think I could have come up with a better solution myself." Herrick snapped the charm back into place. "Hetty. Well, well, it's been a very long time indeed. I think this will be quite delightful. We should have a drink to celebrate." He moved to open the door to a small room beyond. "And to toast absent friends."

In the subtle lights of a small library Mitchell could see a young woman, hands tied and mouth gagged. Her simple white blouse was crumpled and ripped and her terror was palpable even from where he stood. A tremor ran through him in response to the sight, but he forced his eyes away.

"Thanks Herrick, but I told you earlier. I'm done. Nothing’s changed. I'll see you round - but don't let us spoil the party."

A shadow passed across Herrick's face, this kind of insubordination would not pass him by and Mitchell was in no doubt that he was still unfinished business. But it seemed that the lure dangled in front of his old comrade was too strong to resist. So the shadow was folded away and he pulled out his brightest grin.

"Oh I'm so sorry, Amy my dear." Herrick bowed towards the girl. "I'm afraid it's just the two of us tonight. Christophe can't make it after all. I'll show these two out. But don't worry your pretty little head, I'll be back in a tick."

~~~~

The sun was shining with the crisp brightness of the end of autumn. Rachel and Mitchell sat across from each other, the radio whispering in the background. Just a lazy Sunday late morning breakfast.

"My God, but how can you eat your own body weight in cereal? Where do you put it all?"

Mitchell arched an eyebrow before reaching out to stroke along the side of her hand. A small frown flickered between the dark brows.

"How's your wrist feeling?"

Rachel sighed and put her other hand over his.

"It's fine, really it is. It's healing amazingly easily. You have to stop asking me that, you're driving me crazy."

He leant back in his chair and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, I promise I'll shut up. Vampire bites never get infected you know. Weird that. Maybe one day I'll hand myself over to a doctor, or a scientist or something. They could study me - imagine the good they could do."

Rachel glanced up over the rim of her cup and tilted her head to one side.

"Not until I've finished studying you!"

"I'm liking the sound of that, sweetheart." Mitchell laughed for a second, but before she had the chance to say more he deflected her flirtation. "You do know I don't want you to leave, don't you, but you must."

Rachel stood, walked behind where he sat, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"You could come with us."

"To Italy? Lovely place. But no, I can't. I have to make sure nothing rocks the boat here ‘til Herrick gets back."

"Why you? Seriously, why not walk away from all this? You could. You don’t owe them."

"I can’t come with you, I've tasted you Rachel. Your blood pulls in my veins, and it will grow stronger, it will be exciting and dangerous. I’m telling you that I will kill you. Louisa knows that, that's why she's so desperate to get you away. And she's right. You know it too. You've seen the real me."

"That's not the real you." Rachel protested.

"Oh it is, sweetheart. Just as much as this is the real me. C'mon, you know I'm right Rachel."

"What will you do?"

"I need to be on my own. After all this time I have to find my own way without being Herrick's creature."

"On your own? Mitchell, oh I don't know, you might be right but ... Look, it seems to me that to be most yourself you need someone or something to care about, why don’t you-?"

"Shhh. Listen. Turn the sound up." Mitchell interrupted, gesturing towards the radio.

_'Back to the traffic news. Major tailbacks on the M4 today as a lorry jack-knifed across two lanes outside Swindon earlier this morning. Police are in attendance and latest reports from the scene suggest the lorry contained an undisclosed number of illegal immigrants. No-one is reported to have been injured, and no other vehicle was involved in the incident. It is understood that the driver of the vehicle has not been located despite an extensive search. More news as soon as it is available. Motorists are advised to avoid...'_

Rachel switched the radio off and stared at Mitchell. "You?"

"Miles. And he found a bloody good driver to jack-knife a vehicle of that size without injuring anyone. It’s not great for the people in the back, I know, but we thought it was better than any of the alternatives, and Miles has been pulling every string he’s got to get accommodation and legal support and things in place. They won’t be abandoned.”

"And where is the driver?"

"The replacement? I think your father may have picked up a hitch-hiker somewhere near Swindon this morning, don't you?"

Rachel's shoulders slumped as if a whole weight had lifted. "But as far as all the vampires are concerned Christophe chose the driver, so it's all his fault then."

She stepped round and swung her leg over him until she sat on his lap and before he could object he was enveloped in a hug and his own hands involuntarily slipped round her waist. He told himself he wasn’t really clinging on. He should stop her, of course, but he couldn't. Christ, she felt so good. He felt good. How long had it been? Thirty years? It felt so real it almost hurt.

“I’ve got you a goodbye present.” Rachel gave another squeeze before she was gone and digging through the shopping bag. He refused to feel bereft as the warmth seeped away from his body again.

“The charity shop, you know, the one next to the bakery, the one that seems like your kind of place for clothes shopping. And before you get snippy, Mitchell, it’s my kind of place too. Anyway, these were in the window. And I thought because you’re always so bloody cold, and you are a tight bastard and won’t give up the roll-ups, these would be perfect.”

She pressed something warm and slightly scratchy into his hands. He recognised it before it unfolded between his fingers. Dark green, home knitted, fingerless, warm. He dropped his head to hide the sudden tears. The last thing he wanted to do was explain why a pair of cheap gloves could break him, and Rachel would make him talk, he knew that.

“It made me laugh when I thought of you wearing them. But then I thought, perhaps you could look at them sometimes and remember one person you could have killed but didn’t.”

Her voice shook slightly, but he couldn’t raise his head, not yet.

“Thank you. I’ll do that.”

And Mitchell felt the warmth of her arms reach around him again.

 

Epilogue

 

He had walked the streets for hours in the days that followed Rachel and Louisa's departure. He didn't want to return to his flat again. He'd cleaned and tidied away the wreckage as much as he could, but he felt adrift there. Empty. Lonely. Just waiting for the hunger to claim him again and enslave him as it always did.

It was dark now and so cold he could see his breath in the air. He leant against a dank wall and sent the text he'd been avoiding sending all day. With Herrick gone he was left circling the vampire community, making sure their heads were down, because without Herrick working his magic at the police station the last thing he wanted to deal with was more mess.

Keep the kills simple and untraceable, that was all he asked.

Keep moving, just keep moving, he told himself.

Herrick was forever telling each new recruit that he or she was a shark. No doubt he meant a Great White, effortlessly ruling the seas in majestic silence, choosing its prey and striking with terrifying power. Mitchell wasn't impressed any more. To him it conjured up a vision of a creature trapped in endless motion, owned by its need to feed. And if it stopped moving - it died.

At least he'd get a coffee and food in the café where the others were waiting for him; he was fuckin' freezing.

He blew into his hands, feeling the wool of the gloves warm up slightly.

Sometimes he looked at them and remembered the ‘comforts’, the only slice of actual comfort making its way into the trenches along with the chocolate, memories of home, and knitted green gloves and socks and balaclavas, as well as the tobacco he started smoking - rolled up in the middle of all that the carnage in an attempt mask the smell, and maybe warm up a little inside -

But sometimes he saw the person he could have killed but didn’t.

As he got closer to the café and the lure of the coffee he heard sickening noises coming from the back alley.

Ah Jesus. He recognised Seth's voice, loud and vicious. “Get in there boys”.

Shit. What was the eejit doing now?

"Woah, Woah!" He shouted as he walked towards them.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, but looking around it was obvious. Some poor sod was huddled on the floor half hidden by the bins. Blood was spattered across the wall and floor. Marco and Sorensen stepped back, their bodies jittery from the interrupted violence and desperate for the kill.

"He's a lyco, man. We saw him in the caff." Marco said.

Mitchell shot a pitying look at the man left bleeding and cowering on the ground.

 

_And then what?_

 

_They were just two souls._

_United by fear and solitude._

_Lost in the dark._

_Fate pushed them together, and now they were going to find out why._

 

THE BEGINNING.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe it's been more than six years since Being Human first got under my skin and eventually made me write. It may be gone but it's never, ever forgotten. With endless thanks to the fantastic creative team and the cast to die for. 
> 
> And so an old fic gets a mega-overhaul. Obviously nothing belongs to me except the errors. And I promise to give these characters - who I will always adore - back unharmed. Mostly.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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